Mister Impossible (Dreamer Trilogy #2)(82)

Ten. That was the number of coffees Carmen Farooq-Lane ordered while waiting in the Somerville café. She didn’t want to cheaply hold down this table when another paying customer could have it, but she also didn’t want to float away on a lake of coffee.

She glanced at the time on her phone. Thirty-five minutes had passed since the agreed-upon rendezvous time. When did she give up?

“Just one more, please,” she told the server.

God, but she was nervous. She didn’t know if she was more nervous about the meeting or being found out by the Moderators. She’d resigned right after checking out of the quaint little rental cottage. Just like that. Strip the sheets from the bed, make sure all the dishes were in the dishwasher, turn off all the lights, hide Hennessy’s moonlit sword in a linen closet, quit the only job that seemed important. Lock had accepted the keys to the bullet-ridden rental car and had her sign a nondisclosure agreement.

Of course I’m disappointed, Lock had rumbled, but I respect your decision. Farooq-Lane wasn’t entirely sure she believed him; the Moderators had not been interested in respecting people’s decisions before that point.

He was less gracious about Liliana’s resignation a few minutes after, but Liliana had been insistent. Gentle. Fair. She cited the mishandling of the Rhiannon Martin job and the emotional scarring of her teen self. She noted that the Moderators had not, to that point, seemed to be able to use her visions to make the world a safer place. She reminded them Farooq-Lane’s presence had always been part and parcel of her deal with the Moderators. No, she could not be persuaded to stay long enough to help find another Visionary. Yes, she was sorry to leave them blind, but she wished them luck.

Farooq-Lane hadn’t really thought the Moderators would let them go, but they had.

She dipped into her parents’ bank accounts to buy a car at the closest local dealership, stopped briefly by the rental cottage to retrieve Hennessy’s sword, and then left that part of her life in the rearview mirror.

Boston was their destination. Liliana had just had a vision.



Nine a.m. that morning, Declan Lynch had called to discuss an urgent matter. I would prefer to have this conversation on the most secure line possible, he murmured. It requires the utmost discretion. Coincidentally, she had told him, she was in the Boston area—did he want to meet up in person? She had been intensely grateful that she’d been the one to call him about Ronan Lynch earlier that month. Now he was late.

“Ms. Farooq-Lane?”

Declan Lynch stood by the table. He looked like his brother Ronan, but with the edges sanded off, the memorable bits deleted. He had neat, civilized dress slacks; a neat, civilized wool sweater; neat, civilized facial hair; very nice shoes. There wasn’t a stitch that was out of place in this upscale café full of talkative Tufts students and drowsy medical residents.

“I didn’t see you come in,” she said.

“I came in the back.” She saw him check his surroundings, but only because she was watching him closely. He was very good. Long practice with paranoia. “I’m sorry I’m late. I had to be sure I wasn’t followed.”

She couldn’t really believe it. Here he was. Liliana’s vision had promised it, but the visions were always things for the Moderators to interpret, not her, and they were always for killing Zeds, not attempting anything more nuanced. “Of course. Can I get you a coffee?”

“We should be brief,” Declan said by way of reply. His voice was vague, nasal; he sounded as if he were announcing a meeting agenda. “Unwise to push our luck.”



Eight minutes was how long it took Declan Lynch to say his piece.

“I love my brother,” Declan said. “So know that when I say this next part I’m saying it from a place of fondness: Ronan’s a follower. He’s always needed a hero to follow. When he was a kid, he idolized my father. When he was in school, he idolized his best friend. Now he’s obviously idolizing this Bryde. He doesn’t get ideas on his own. That sounds bad. Remember I said I loved him. I mean it in the best way. I mean it this way: He’s not your problem. Take away Bryde, and Ronan’s just the same as he always was, a kid who’s going to go back to Virginia to play with cars and mud and cowshit. Who was running the show when you saw them together? It was Bryde, wasn’t it? Not my brother. Not Jordan Hennessy. Whose name has been whispered subversively for weeks? Bryde’s.”

She tilted her chin. “We’re in agreement. Bryde’s the target.”

“Are we in agreement? Because I want to be sure you know why I’m sitting at this table.”

A coworker at Alpine Financial had told Farooq-Lane once that, neurologically, most people saw their future selves as a totally different person, and so treated them with less empathy, like a stranger. High achievers, though, saw their present and future self as one person and accordingly made wiser decisions. Farooq-Lane had immediately decided that her job as a financial adviser was to close the gap between these two selves.

She closed the gap for Declan Lynch.

“You’re here to make sure your family gets a chance to have meaningful adult lives,” Farooq-Lane said, with quiet surety. “You’re here to make sure there’s actually a world for them to have those lives in. You’re here because what you saw in Bryde scared you and you want your brother far away from him, because that’s not what your brother stands for and you don’t want his life to be defined by a single decision. You’re here talking to me because you’re aware you don’t have the ability to do this on your own. You’re here because you’re a good brother.”