Steal the Lightning: A Field Ops Novel (Field Ops #3)(86)

Ghirelli held him, while his personal physician—the man I’d last seen coping with the injured from the raid—pulled up his sleeve, and started looking for a vein.

“Another thing,” said Voss. “The flask, please.”

I took it from the bag and gave it to him. He flicked the display on, checked the levels.

“This is . . . lower than expected.”

“So?”

“This is your only flask?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“This is the Second Eden god? Complete?”

“No, that’s the Ballington god. Part of it. Friendly chap. Don’t get too close, you’ll singe your beard.”

“Where’s the Second Eden god?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

“It’s still in place here?”

“I don’t know. You better check on that.”

“I need the Second Eden god.”

“Your great experiment? What department are you, by the way?”

“We need the god, Mr. Copeland.”

“It’s probably around. You never know with gods, though, do you? Here today, gone tomorrow. That’s gods for you.”

Behind me, Ballington howled. Ghirelli had him in a lock. The doc was trying to get a needle in his arm.

“Poor chap,” I said. “Must be a real letdown, being human again . . .”





Chapter 69

Welcome to Field Ops




“You’re qualified,” I said.

“Official?”

I held my phone up, let her see: “‘Resourceful,’ ‘problem-solving,’ ‘team worker.’ Oh, there’s a bit at the end about, ‘risk-taking’ and ‘loss of acquisition,’ but they’ll always find something to gripe about. I’m meant to read it all out but I can’t be bothered.”

“Field Op,” she said, like someone trying on a new coat.

There was more I had to say, only I put it off. More about the future, and about us.

But we went out to celebrate instead.

The same way we did every night, regardless whether we’d a reason.

I’d sent in two reports: one on Angel, one on McAvoy. The McAvoy report yielded a lot less joy.

Great work, wrote Ms. Ramirez, politely thanking me for what I’d done.

I wrote back, Who is Voss?

Not familiar with the name myself, she wrote. And then, Enjoy Las Vegas!

So we did.

The burn on my arm stopped me from swimming, but I was happy just to lie beside the pool, soaking up the sun. We ate too much. We went to bars. We once drank yard-long margaritas around 10:00 a.m. and had to nap by 12. We visited a dolphin pool and saw the paintings at the Bellagio. The latter was impressive, just to say the least.

“You don’t get this in Blackpool,” I said.

“What’s Blackpool?”

“It’s like Coney Island, but with fish and chips.”

In the mornings she rose early. She’d vanish for an hour or more and often I would wake alone. I never asked her where she went or what she did. She brought back coffee which we drank in bed. Then we made love. Then we hit town. Then came back, and made love again. There was an urgency about it, the way you get when you know something’s going to end—not now, and not today, but soon.

One evening, we met Elvis Perez, idling with a cola and a hot dog between jobs. So they dueted—Angel on the backing vocals, very formal, very classical, while they ran through “Teddy Bear,” and Perez growled, squealed, and postured. He struck karate poses. He sneered. He swiveled his hips.

To tell the truth, he couldn’t really sing.

“I am the last great Elvis on the Strip, people! Everyone else is superhero, spaceman. But I—only I am Elvis!” He raised his hands into the air, thanking an audience that no one else could see. “This—I tell you, friends. It is more than just a costume! To be Elvis—it is life!”

“At least the ghosts are gone,” I said.

“Ah. The city finds a way. I should have faith in them . . .”

Another night, in the Venetian, she sang back to the gondoliers. And everyone applauded.

“Brilliant,” I told her.

“Average,” she said.



I should have just relaxed. I should have kept off e-mail and the news feeds, should have ditched my phone and my computer. But I didn’t.

Four days after leaving Vegas, Edward Ballington, Senior, announced that he would run for President.

Like he was doing everyone a favor.

He promised great strides in alternate energy production, and “the biggest shake-up to employment laws” in well over a century.

Angel just looked at me.

You do the right thing short term. You wonder about long term, though.

I said, “At least he’s just a man this time. He could have been a god.”

“Why’d a god want to be President?”

“Gods are greedy. They want to eat. You get them paired with someone else like that . . . The god might not care one way or the other who’s President. But the man does. And that’s the part that interacts. The part with the ambition.”

I felt dizzy, worn out with the light, the heat, the booze.