The Flight of the Silvers (Silvers #1)(176)

While she listened to the dulcet chirps of Peter’s ringing phone, she cleared her throat and peeled off her silly mask. As if he’d see you, she chided herself. As if he’d judge.

Zack paced her side like an expecting father, doubling her anxiety. She forced her gaze past him, onto the bulky gray bank machine that stood against the neighboring wall. It reminded her of a video poker console with its seven large buttons and crude pastel graphics. A dark glass beacon rested on top like a novelty fez. She assumed it only flared in the event of criminal tampering.

After two minutes and thirty rings, Amanda and David joined Zack in his fretful hovering. Mia shrugged in tense surrender, then hung up. Loose coins drizzled into the return tray.

“You sure you got the number right?” David asked her.

“Yeah. I double-checked.”

“Try again in a few minutes,” Amanda said. “He could just be—”

The pay phone rang. Mia leapt at the handset, plugging her free ear with a finger. “Hello?”

A taut male voice filled the receiver. “What’s your name?”

“What?”

“Your name. Say it.”

“Mia. Mia Farisi.”

The voice loosened up. “All right. Just had to make sure. You guys in the city?”

“Yeah. We’re here. Can you—”

“And you’re together. All six of you.”

“Yes. We’re all together. Can you just ease my mind and confirm that you’re—”

“Peter Pendergen,” he replied. “You called my house a few weeks back and spoke to my son Liam. The two of you had a misunderstanding about the definition of ‘pen pal.’ Better?”

Mia sighed contentedly. “Yes. Thank you. And I’m sorry about that call. If I put him in danger—”

“No. He’s fine. My people would never hurt him. Listen, I’m being watched. I don’t have much time. You got a pen and paper?”

“Yeah. Always.”

He dictated an address in the Battery Park district of Manhattan and then, with a brusque impatience that bothered her, made her read it back.

“I’ll be there in five minutes,” he said. “Come as quick as you can.”

“Okay, but can you bring whatever painkillers you have? Theo’s—”

He hung up before she could finish. Mia kept a dubious stare on the receiver.

“Everything all right?” Zack asked.

“Yeah. I guess.”

“What’s the problem?”

“Nothing. He just seemed nicer in his letters.”

Amanda moved to the shoeshine stand, flanking Theo’s side while Hannah gently shook him awake. He blinked at the sisters in drowsy puzzlement, then surveyed the parade.

“What . . . what are we doing back here?”

“We never left,” Amanda said.

Hannah rubbed his shoulder. “Are you okay?”

“No. I’m confused. Last thing I remember, we were picking you both up from the roof.”

“What roof?”

He rubbed his eyes. “I don’t know. I feel weird.”

Hannah fumed at Ioni. What the hell did you do to him?

“We’re going to see Peter now,” Amanda told him. “Are you okay to walk?”

Theo nodded unsteadily. “Yeah. I can walk.”

As the group regathered, Mia took a final glance at the bank machine. She knew they were called “cashers” here and that they were maintained by the state government. They could be used to pay taxes and traffic tickets, even renew a drinking license.

Behind the dark round glass on top of the console, the civic camera continued to fix on Mia. It knew a few things about her as well.

—

Melissa snapped awake in her swivel chair, dazed and half-blind. She brushed the dreads from her face and glanced around the narrow van. A chubby young blond in a sweatsuit yawned at his surveillance console. He was yet another unfamiliar face from the Manhattan DP-9 office. Melissa had dozed right through a shift change.

She arched her sore back. “Did I miss anything?”

“No ma’am,” the agent replied.

Quarter Hill was located fourteen miles north of the city, a wealthy little hamlet nestled snugly inside a ten-foot tempic wall. The gates were guarded by a security firm that had been cited several times by police for overzealous force.

Melissa peeked over the agent’s shoulder at the thermal imaging display, where two orange silhouettes casually moved around the dark blue backdrop of a living room. From all indications, Peter Pendergen led a perfectly mundane life. When he wasn’t typing away at his latest novel or debating Irish history on Eaglenet forums, he lounged around the house with his thirteen-year-old son. If anything, it was the hint of anguish in Liam Pendergen’s voice that suggested something wasn’t right.

The conversation in the living room came to a halt. The father took his son by the shoulders and drew him into an embrace. The directional microphones picked up a gentle whisper.

“Call your team,” Melissa said. “Tell them to get ready. Pendergen’s about to move.”

“What did he say? I couldn’t hear it.”

“Neither could I. But that’s a good-bye hug if I ever saw one.”

Her handphone beeped with a new text message. She pulled it from her pocket.