Steal the Lightning: A Field Ops Novel (Field Ops #3)(63)

To Angel, I said, “It’s a factory.”

These bright, fantastical machines, manned around the clock, kept going on a fuel of alcohol and cigarettes, panic and yearning—there was purpose here. Intent. No clocks, no breaks, no knocking off. The sheer force of concentration was phenomenal. I saw people sitting rigid, frozen, utterly bound up—

“This isn’t normal.”

“I know.” She looked around. “It’s like midnight in the crack house. Don’t you get that feeling? You try and peel these guys off of the slots, they’d probably leave skin behind.”

“It’s what every business wants to be. Gambling as religion . . .”

One of the housekeeping staff went by, pushing a cart bigger than she was. The cart, like her uniform, was dark blue, blending with the shadows. Even garbage collection was kept unobtrusive, so as not to break the spell.

“Excuse me, ma’am, I’m trying to find Mr. Preston McAvoy . . .”

I started it in earnest, then. I asked bar staff, I asked croupiers, I even asked security, though I was careful to be specially polite with them.

I asked anyone, and everyone, and told them all exactly who I was.

“Copeland, I’m Registry . . .”

It took me two hours, four drinks, and ten bucks in the slot machines, but finally, I got an answer.





Chapter 52

God of Air




It was a good suit, but he didn’t wear it well. He was nearly as wide as he was tall; he looked like the flank of a mammoth, carved off and remade as a human being. A full black beard covered his lower face. The suntan didn’t quite hide scarring on his temple, and the cheekbone that side had been broken and not set level. His face had taken damage, and his fists, by the look of them, had doled a fair bit out, as well. He slouched towards us, nodded to me, to Angel. “Ma’am.”

“ID?” he asked me.

He wasn’t impolite; just far too jaded to consider saying please. I handed him my passport and he took about as much interest as the cop had in Big Hollow. Angel proffered her card but he waved it away. “No trouble, ma’am.” To me, “You have employment ID?”

I had. I had a card that named me as a specialist in power conservation for the home and workplace, which I was not. I had a card which named me as an expert in alternate energy supplies, which I was also not. But I played this one up-front. I gave him my Registry ID and this, at least, he took some interest in.

“Mr. Copeland.” He walked away, taking my ID with him. I glanced at Angel. She shrugged, slipped from the bar stool, and we followed.

“So how come he doesn’t want my docs?” she said. “Kind of insulting, don’t you think?”

There was a door marked staff. He opened it. I was expecting an office, but it was little more than a cupboard. A computer terminal, scanner and printer had been stashed inside. A suit, wrapped in plastic, hung from a hook on the wall. He scanned my ID, flipped it over, scanned again. His fingers were like dish mops on the buttons. Then he handed me the card. We waited. Presently his phone rang. He answered it, grunted a few times, and hung up.

After that, we followed him across the gaming hall. He was so wide there were times he had to turn sideways to slip between the crowds and the machines, but he moved with a surprising speed.

We were near the kitchens now. There was an elevator door. No call button, only a keypad, which he tapped, blocking the number from my sight. Then he took his phone, and glanced at it.

“ID checks out, by the way,” he said. “That’s why I’m going to show you this. If not, you’d be looking at the back alley now.”

Angel said, “I didn’t catch your name, sir.”

“No,” he said. “You didn’t.”



We went up. It took a few moments. No one spoke.

When the door opened, I looked for a floor number. There wasn’t one. We were in a small, windowless lobby, across from a large door. The door had a shiny, copper-colored surface but was pocked and tarnished, thick with dust. There were wall lights to either side, casting a thin, pale twilight over everything. In the corner stood a folding chair and a table with a Starbucks cup on it. There was debris on the floor. Parts of machinery, old sandwich wrappers. Tiling underneath, checked red and white.

The elevator door slid shut.

“I feel it, Chris.”

“Me too.”

There was a metal taste down in my throat. I felt the air on my face, sniffing, exploratory, tasting my skin, my sweat. Examining me.

I had a creeping feeling on the back of my neck.

“You’ve got a fucking god.”

The man’s face was impassive as a stone. He moved towards the big door, flipped up the cover on the keypad.

“It’s not contained, is it?”

A glass ashtray, left amid the dust and debris on the floor, began to edge its way across the tiles. Shadows shifted in the corner. The thing was awake, responding to our presence.

I said, “Call the elevator.”

“Elevator’s right there. But you strike me as a curious man, Mr. Copeland. Thought you’d like to see this.”

He keyed a number in, wrenched at the door handle. The door stuck. He put his weight against it and it shuddered inwards, scraping something on the floor. A length of metal edging had been caught beneath it. The big man kicked at it till it came loose.