Steal the Lightning: A Field Ops Novel (Field Ops #3)(85)

I checked the levels. Then I knelt, and looked at him.

There were bruises coming on his face, under the paint. His eyes struggled to focus.

I took his pulse. I put a hand upon his brow: cool now, wet with sweat.

“Say thanks,” I said. “’Cause I just saved your useless fucking life.”





Chapter 68

Registry Personnel




The god was gone from Second Eden.

The god was gone, the power was gone.

The lights didn’t work. The control box didn’t work. The whole retrieval system had gone dead.

We dragged Ballington out of the elevator. I checked his pulse, his breathing. Again, I thought how much I’d longed to save a life. Wondered why it had to end up being his.

We sat him in a chair and he was sick—the thin gruel of someone who’s not eaten for a long time. Then wrenching, dry heaves. He looked around, breathing hard. His hand came up, accusingly.

He wanted somebody to blame.

I said, “It’s finished. No more god. You’re done.”

He mouthed at me with stained lips.

“No,” he said.

We opened up the door to the stairs.

I had been worried about the reaction of Ballington’s party. I needn’t have. They were dazed, battered, just as we were.

Eddie-boy ran to his father. It was not exactly affection I saw there, but it was more concern than I’d have honestly expected.

“Dad-o?” He pushed his face up to the older man’s. “Dad-o?”

“That’s who it is,” I said. “For the first time in a while.”

Eddie and Ghirelli got him to his feet. He hung between them like a sack of flour.

I started to collect the cables, then thought better of it. Cables could wait. Someone else could do the clearing up.

I said to Angel, “Let’s get out of here.”



We walked fourteen floors of half-lit stairwells. I had the flask in a bag over my shoulder. I was tired. All I had to do now was to deal with McAvoy. I had some notion I could give him to the cops, have him charged with—well, theft, for starters. After that, we’d see what we could find.

The gaming floor was dark. Shafts of light cut through from tiny windows high up near the ceiling. The air smelled of smoke. The slot machines rose, shining in the gloom, perspectives lost, and I’d a momentary vision of them, rows on rows of temples in some ancient, vanished kingdom. A row of potted palms leaned over me. The carpet was as soggy as a jungle floor.

I kept close to McAvoy. I was not letting him go, not after all of this.

Though as it turned out, I wouldn’t have a lot of choice.



There were two guys waiting at the entrance. Two guys and a car.

I knew that they were Registry the moment I set eyes on them. The older wore a gray goatee. He took out ID. But it wasn’t for me, or for Angel.

He held it out to McAvoy.

“Preston,” he said, and smiled.

“Hey.” I took the card and looked at it.

“Paul Voss?” I said. The name meant nothing, but it was clear my interruption did. A flash of anger passed across his face. I said, “This is Preston McAvoy. Known to the world as Johnny Appleseed. This is the guy—”

“You’d be Cop-land,” said Voss.

“Copeland.”

He put his hand on my shoulder. Pushing me away.

He smiled. “Relax,” he said. “We’ll take it from here.”

“This guy McAvoy—he’s got Registry property, he’s responsible for—”

“We know the history. Thank you, Mr. Copeland. You’ve been very helpful.”

I could have just accepted it. I’d done my job, I’d finished. But I said, “Wait a minute. This is—”

He held his hand up. There was no smile now.

“Like I say,” he said. “We’ll take it from here. You’ve done enough. The good news is, you and Ms.—Ms.—”

“Dr. Farthing.”

“Your hotel’s paid for the week. You get some rest, OK? Kick back, relax. Think you can do that?”

“You don’t know what you’re dealing with here. This guy’s dangerous. For fuck sake—”

He put his head down, spoke quickly, quietly. “Mr. Copeland. We know exactly what we’re dealing with. I’ve told you: get some rest. Do you understand?”

It wasn’t an invitation.

The younger man led McAvoy away. He held open the car door like a chauffeur, and McAvoy slipped quietly inside.

Voss stood in front of me, blocking me, as if he thought I’d suddenly run after him.

I said, “What’s happening here?”

“He’ll be debriefed, and dealt with appropriately.”

“‘Debriefed’?”

“He’s Registry personnel.”

“According to Registry, he’s fucking dead.”

Voss shrugged. “Technical error. Don’t let it bother you.”

“You’ve come to take him home,” I said. “You’re the one he calls ‘control’, aren’t you?”

“I think you’ve seen too many spy movies, Mr. Copeland.”

Behind us, Edward Ballington threw back his head and screamed.