“Don’t forget, you’re not new to this rodeo,” he cuts through the flex-cuffs around my ankles. “You accepted a very decided flight path long before you gave your official consent.”
Consent that was caught on film, and I hate to imagine what else. I remember the cameras in the ceiling of room 1, just as there are cameras here. My every utterance and move are recorded as if I’m the subject of a science experiment. And apparently, I am. And have been since birth. And maybe before that.
I start on the gauze around my ankles as Dick folds his knife, tucking it back into a pocket, leaving a mess of cut plastic and rope for someone else to clean up. I neatly place my balled-up gauze on the bedside table as he walks off through the living room to the kitchen with its countertop, cabinets, refrigerator and microwave oven.
A table is before a curtained window overlooking the back entrance, trees, a large parking lot and other similar buildings. I know the view very well, having delivered my share of VIPs requiring protective escorts when they stay in the enclave of officer’s quarters back here.
“What does Fran think is going on?” I pull the covers up to my chin, studying puncture wounds in the fold of my left arm from injections and IV lines. “Does she assume Carme is deployed overseas somewhere? Busy flying her fighter jets, doing her special ops stuff?”
“That’s the word on the street, and we want to keep it that way.”
“And what has Fran been told about me?”
“The origin story you and I just went over,” Dick turns on the water in the sink. “That you’re here for safe custody and debriefings, which is factual.”
“I guess that’s how it works. Fiction starts feeling like fact, and what you want to think becomes what you believe,” I reply as I rub my ankles, my wrists . . .
Wondering what’s become of my sports bra and boxer briefs . . .
And my tactical cargo pants, shirt, jacket, socks, boots, knife, gun, badge wallet . . .
What about the temporary ID smartcard I was issued after mine disappeared, for that matter . . . ?
“Ready for coffee?” Dick opens a white bakery box from the Grey Goose restaurant, reminding me of their Brunswick stew, my stomach growling again.
“High-test black,” I remind him while inspecting myself, finding little obvious damage beyond bruised knuckles from throwing punches.
7
“I BELIEVE I know how you take your coffee after all these years,” Dick says with a trace of warmth.
He’s more personable now that he’s on the other side of the room, a safe distance away, and it must have been difficult watching Carme and me grow up, twins he’s groomed and might love too much. Guiding, nurturing us in ways our father couldn’t, and then what?
“To give credit where it’s due,” Dick pours water into the coffee maker’s reservoir, “I have to say you’ve handled chronic discomfort remarkably well,” as if that was reason enough to tether me like a hostage, a sex slave, a lunatic for days on end.
“What am I supposed to be doing today? And from now on?” I’m reluctant to get up in nothing but flimsy cotton scrubs too snug in all the wrong places, not to mention the diaper.
“You’ll head out to protective services HQ this afternoon once we’ve finished up here. You’ll be meeting Fran.”
“Then I guess I’ll need my truck.”
“Not anymore.”
“Ummm? Did something happen to it?” I envision my Silverado parked near the Denali at the Point Comfort Inn.
“In light of the cyberattack and other events you’re better served with something more appropriate that will blend,” Dick says, and as usual it’s up to him. “An SUV with special features courtesy of our Secret Service friends. Your Chase Car is waiting for you in the parking lot, the key on the table by the door. Although a physical key isn’t necessary.”
He opens a jar of coffee whitener, clinking the lid down on the countertop, stirring in his usual heaping teaspoon of what I tell him isn’t real creamer or even food. Then he’s headed my way, carrying our coffees in his strong steady hands, a paper plate of muffins balanced on top of the mugs.
I don’t stand on ceremony, helping myself as starved as I am. Biting into a muffin, crumbs going everywhere, I blow on my coffee, taking several greedy sips.
“Absolute power, a galactic dictatorship, that’s the prize and what we’re up against,” Dick retrieves a laptop computer from the SIPRNet desk. “It’s all about who’s the gatekeeper, and we sure as hell don’t want it to be Neva Rong.”
He paints the scenario of someone like that in charge of the world’s GPS, internet, TV and radio networks. Imagine such an entity deciding which streaming entertainment and news programs we’re able to access or whose astronauts explore the moon and other planets.
“Not the theory of everything but the takeover of it,” he settles next to me on the bed, leaving his desert boots on. “And locking up Neva wouldn’t solve the problem. Eliminating her wouldn’t either.”
“Similar to taking out a head of state, or the leader of a terrorist organization,” I reply, already starting on a second muffin. “You still have to deal with thousands of employees, followers, a global network.”
“She doesn’t operate alone, is heavily embedded in US government projects, including extremely sensitive ones,” Dick arranges another pillow behind him on the bed. “She has friends in high places, as much money as a country, and knows how to play politics. Neva’s been at it for years and will stop at nothing.”
“It looks like my sister and I have our work cut out for us,” and I wonder when Dick first cooked up his secret agenda.
When Mom was pregnant? When he found out she was having twins? For sure, he was involved with my family prior to Carme’s and my arrival on this planet, going back to Dad’s short-lived stint at the Air Force Academy. Supposedly, he and Dick sat next to each other in basic cadet training class their first year, were instant comrades as tight as brothers.
That’s according to their origin story, which I’ve always found a little fishy since they aren’t really all that compatible or even friendly with each other. Truth be told, Dick’s closest ally isn’t Dad. It’s Mom and always has been.