Steal the Lightning: A Field Ops Novel (Field Ops #3)(37)

Of course we couldn’t.





Chapter 34

A Gathering of the Faithful




There was just enough moonlight to see by.

If you squinted and looked really hard.

At 2:00 a.m., I drove into the park. We bumped over a curb, onto the grass. I cut the lights and drove across the lawn, then in among the trees. I got close. Then I turned around and backed up till a clump of shrubs got in the way. By then the pond was just a few feet off.

I said, “Whatever happens, focus on the job. Don’t rush it. Do it right, each step. Check it as you go. Then check it after, all right?”

Angel gave me a thumbs-up.

“Your state of mind’s important here. Be quick, but more than that, be accurate. OK?”

I was aware of Silverman, then, in the backseat, and the little red light on the camera, shining in the gloom.

“You,” I said, “do what you’re told. And nothing else. All right?”



The cables gleamed. They pick up light; sometimes they almost seem to glow, all on their own.

We put the flask on the jetty. We set up the control box, about three yards back from it. Then we ran a line around the pond. That was our perimeter. It went well till we reached the tent. The canvas came right to the water. It was anchored with wooden stakes, and the pond was deep enough for wading not to seem a happy option. I doubled back to get one of the boats from the jetty. It was easy enough. There was a locked gate I had to hop across but it was hardly Fort Knox. I rowed, softly, trying to keep the noise down. It was frustrating; I scarcely seemed to move. But I got there. I used the tent fastenings to hold the cable. Meantime, Angel had the other cables out of the car, balloons bobbing like sunflowers on a breezy day.

It was then—before we’d even set up—I realized that we weren’t alone.

I’d ignored a couple of cars that had gone by, and the flash of headlights from between the trees. But now I saw a pickup rumble to a stop across the square. Moments later, another car pulled in beside it. People got out. And down the hill, I saw people walking. All of them heading for the tent.

“Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck.”

I had Silverman and Angel lay low, watching.

“You think they’re going to do the whole bit? The meeting, pull the curtains back, all that?”

“They might.”

But this was clandestine—the very hour said that. No flocks of worshippers, no crowds—and with luck, no one out here, in the dark, keeping watch.

Ten minutes passed. It felt more like an hour. But there were no more cars. Now everyone was in the tent. There wasn’t going to be a show. This was about something else.

I said, “He’s protecting his investment.”

Silverman asked what I meant.

“The god’s got used to them. Every night, it gets its little fix, its bit of worship. Its psychic energy. He wants to keep it happy. Or his people do. Otherwise, it might just up and leave.”

“Is that likely?”

“I doubt it. But I’d guess he doesn’t know that.”

A dim glow moved over the inside of the tent. Were they using flashlights? What were they doing in there?

Perhaps it wasn’t even a ceremony. Just a few prayers, maybe a hymn or two . . .

If we were quick. If we were lucky . . .

I stood up.

“If I say stop, we stop. Got that?” I looked at Angel. “Got that?”

She gave a little, mocking sigh. “You’re always trying to spoil the fun, Chris.”



There were voices. There was singing. Not the choir this time; a whispered hymn, maybe ten or twenty voices, crooning, low. The perfect soundtrack. I set out in the boat again. I could reach the bottom of the pond with the oar and for a time I pushed the boat along like that, unreeling cables that sank into the water and left a trail of big, shiny balloons gleaming in the moonlight. The water was so smooth and peaceful, and they studded it like pillows on a ballroom floor.

The singing kept up. When it stopped, I pulled the oars in, and we floated, silent, waiting. As soon as it resumed, then I went on.

It was nearly 3:00 a.m.

The moon’s reflection rippled under me. Balloons bobbed. A night breeze rustled in the trees.

I got back to the jetty. Angel had the last few cables ready for me.

“Church meeting?” she said.

“They stay in there, we’re fine. And if they don’t get the thing all roused up again.”

“There’s enough of them for that?”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

I looked around. The moon had sunk behind the treetops, its light broken and dimmed.

Three cables still to go. Short ones. Quick ones.

I had changed my mind about the jetty, though. It was not the place to be if things got hot. I told her, “Move the flask back to the bank. We’ll drive the god inshore. Where’s Silverman?”

She nodded to the far side of the pond. He had his camera up. I waved but he didn’t see.

She said, “I’ll get him.”

She was a runner. She took three strides to reach the bank. It’s an illusion to say people “float” or “glide,” and yet she barely seemed to touch the boards. The noise was tiny—clack, clack, clack—and she vaulted the gate, and I lost sight of her a moment in the shadows. Then there, in a patch of moonlight, and gone, and there again—I had a weird vision of her as a string of stills, these frozen pictures spread among the trees.