Steal the Lightning: A Field Ops Novel (Field Ops #3)(54)

I looked at Eddie, his grin barely faded, at the middle-aged security guard, his face as blank as a poker player’s.

Somehow, I was glad the Ballington Estate was not on my list of places to sort out. But I’d send in a report. I’d write it all down, send it off, and hope that someone, somewhere, had the sense to pay attention.



It was growing dark as I drove back. I phoned Angel from the car. The call went straight to voice mail. I knew I shouldn’t worry. She was probably asleep, or at the cinema, or a concert, or somewhere else she couldn’t use her phone. But it bothered me, anyway.

Worrying was one thing I was good at, after all.

So I called Silverman, and the first thing he said was, “Have you seen the news?”

After the call I drove a little further, and at the nearest rest stop I parked in front of a McDonald’s. Then I found my phone and Googled the story.

YOU TOOK OUR HEARTS, YOU TOOK OUR SOULS, YOU TOOK OUR LIVES, said the headline. Underneath, a little less dramatically, was written: Small town sues energy giant.

They were taking us to court. The town of Big Hollow. The mayor, legal advisors, and a certain Reverend Richard Cleary, mentioned in passing in the article. We had deprived the people thereabouts of both income (a singular attraction, drawing visitors from miles around) and spiritual succor. Some shyster lawyer had been pleased to take the case, and made a big speech about foreign companies riding roughshod over the American people. No one, it seemed, had troubled to look up the legal status of our US branch, nor its registered address. Certainly, no one had counted up our own small contribution to the local economy: the amount we’d spent on helium balloons. I thought we might at least have got a “thank you” out of that . . .





Chapter 46

A Man’s Name




I tiptoed down the corridor, slid my key card in the lock and turned the handle, gently as I could. The lights were off but I could see she wasn’t in the bed.

“Angie . . . ?”

“I’m here.”

She sat, curled under a blanket in the armchair.

I said, “What’s up?”

“Nothing’s up.”

She flexed her shoulders, stretched her legs. I asked whether I’d woken her, but she shook her head. “I was thinking, is all.”

“What about?”

“Oh—just listening to the music, really . . .”

But she didn’t have her headphones, or her iPod.

I asked her, “You OK?”

“Uh-huh.”

“You sure I didn’t wake you?”

“Sure.”

But I felt as if I’d wandered into someone else’s dream.

She stood, pulling the blanket round her like a robe. I saw her glance about the room, as if reminding herself where she was.

I watched her, and said nothing.

She flipped the light on. Smiled at me.

There was an odd kind of delay there—barely a moment, but I noticed. A coming-back to herself.

She asked me, “How’d it go?”

“Not great. Rich crazy family with a loose god. Not our job, I’m glad to say. I’ll call it in, and maybe they’ll send someone else to take a look. Don’t expect they’ll get far, though.” I remembered the thumb drive. “I got some CCTV to look at. They say it’s definitely our guy. Appleseed. Be nice to get that cleared up, anyway.”

“Your bosses will be pleased.”

“Bugger them. I’ll be pleased myself.” I took my jacket off, threw it on the upright chair. “‘Undermining public confidence.’ That’s what bothers them.”

“Hm. Maybe public confidence needs undermining, now and then. Keep everybody on their toes.”

“That’s a weird thing to say.”

“Is it?”

She came over. She put her arms around me. I ran my hands across her back, feeling the muscles move, and brushed my lips across her cheek. I caught her scent, faint citrus, and a hint of something darker, earthier beneath.

“Talk to me,” she said.

“These people. You would not believe. You thought Eddie was a piece of work, but his dad—”

“Not them. Talk about us. Tell me we’re good people? We are, aren’t we? You and me?”

I pulled my head back, trying to see her, but she kept her face pressed to my shoulder.

“Yes,” I said. “We’re good people.”

“And it’s going to be OK, isn’t it?”

“What is?”

“Life. I don’t know. Everything . . .”



It’s the plague of modern cafés: out-of-towners, sprawled across your favorite table, busy with their laptops and their cell phones, and their business meetings, which could just as easily be held elsewhere.

But that was us, next morning: Angel, Silverman and me, grabbing the corner table, whispering like terrorists plotting a coup. I ran the thumb drive, fast forwarding—we’d got an hour or more of stuff here, all unedited—and at each flicker of movement I’d freeze-frame, check who was going where, watch them amble down the corridor, their faces bulging as they passed the lens, their heads ballooning and then dwindling back to normal as they moved into the distance. I saw Ghirelli. I saw maintenance crew in overalls. And then came Edward, picking at something stuck between his teeth. The hall itself was plain and functional, probably a lower level, away from public and family quarters. A trolley full of cleaning gear stood in the middle distance, seemingly abandoned. And then here was Edward once again, this time with a friend. I sat up straighter. I let them walk up nice and close, then froze it.