Patriot by M.A. Rothman (summer reading list TXT) 📗

go-bag, and we’ll get you a rifle as well. I’m guessing you’re familiar with these weapons systems.”

“I’ve fired a gun or two,” Connor said. He’d actually kept a go-bag at his apartment after leaving the military, but driving around Washington, DC, with two pistols, extra magazines, and smoke grenades he’d liberated from an overly generous supply sergeant, was a sure way to end up behind bars if he was caught. The senators, representatives, and diplomats were afforded all the security they needed, but the average rank-and-file citizen wasn’t permitted the same.

It had been several years since Connor had lived and breathed his weapons like he had in the army. Sitting in an office in Langley didn’t require weapons training and maintaining his marksmanship abilities. But still, he’d made it a point to visit the range at least once a week. He wasn’t a sniper by any means, but as an average SF shooter he was still heads and shoulders above any normal shooter.

“Excellent, then I don’t have to tell you where the safety on that thing is,” Brice said.

“There isn’t one.”

Brice snapped his fingers, grinning. “Almost had you.”

“Almost.” Connor handed back the custom .45 and picked up the Glock 17. He racked the slide, locking it to the rear and inspecting the chamber. The weapon was clean, with a smooth action and a solid trigger. He brought it up to eye level, peered through the sights, and pulled the trigger, dry-firing it with a click.

“Nice.”

Brice cocked an eyebrow at him. “Huh, I had you pegged as a 1911 guy, myself.”

Connor shrugged. “It’s just a tool. I’m not extremely particular to the type of weapon system I use, as long as it’s reliable.”

“Make sense.” Brice retrieved another case, set it down on the table, and popped the tabs on three sides. A pair of black-framed glasses rested inside, nestled in a Styrofoam cut-out. “I know you don’t normally wear glasses, but I’m going to need you to.”

Connor set the pistol back in its case and turned the glasses over in his hands. “Seems kind of heavy.”

Brice nodded. “Because they’re significantly more advanced that the run-of-the-mill glasses you can get at your local optometrist.”

Connor slid them onto his face. Nothing happened. “Okay?”

“Here.” Brice tapped a small button on the right side of the frame. Immediately, blue translucent lettering appeared on the right lens: AOR Technologies Ver. 2.2c.

Then a loading timer appeared, and Connor watched the small progress bar advance across his vision. “Now that’s impressive.”

The words and progress bar vanished after a moment, replaced by the words, New user identified, awaiting registry information.

“The glasses are registering to your body’s signature,” Brice explained. “We’ve got access to advanced DNA biosensors that probably won’t hit the market for another five years or more. The sensors are part of the eyeglass frame, and through the contact they have with your scalp, they’re analyzing and imprinting to your body’s DNA profile. Once imprinted, nobody else will be able to use this pair of glasses. That DNA imprint will also act as a security seed for the encrypted connection to your agency phone. Through that connection, your lens will display correct GPS coordinates, calling information, all the usual. But it will also stream to our servers here, allowing for almost real-time observation, facial and auditory recognition, the works. You wear those, and we’ll literally be right there with you the whole time.”

“Guess I’ll have to remember that before I go to bed with a pretty lady.”

“Uh…”

“I’m joking.”

“Right, I knew that,” Brice said, looking away. He pulled out a small cloth pouch, unzipped it, and laid it open on the table. “Last thing is your standard wireless tap kit. Hardline phone, cellular, computer hard drive, anything you need.”

Connor picked up what looked like a USB dongle and held it up. “Hard drive?”

“Plug that into a PC and boot it, and it’ll search for and extract any dynamically created data such as e-mails, documents, etc. It’ll work on pretty much any system, and will use network connections to pull the same kind of data from remote services like Gmail, Yahoo, and other repositories.”

“Nice,” Connor said.

“Anything else you need along the way, I’ll drop-ship to wherever you are in the world with very few exceptions. Just remember to keep your ID with you.”

“All right,” said Thompson. “I think you’re all set.”

Connor looked at Thompson, and his glasses displayed the agent’s name and security assessment, which was color-coded as green. “Then I guess it’s time for me to hitch that ride up to New York. I just need to pack a duffel.”

Richards nodded. “I’ll take you back to your apartment, and then to the private hangar over at Dulles.”

As Connor gathered up his new equipment, he felt a sense of anxiousness. “I can’t help but think we’re running out of time.”

Chapter Twenty

The sun had almost dipped below the horizon as Mohammad made his way down the gangway onto the dock. He maneuvered his way through the dockworkers who were finishing securing the ship while the crew prepared for offloading her containers.

Above him, a crane was slowly moving into position, yellow warning strobes flashing as the massive rig rolled across the dock on rails embedded in the concrete. The entire rig groaned as it moved along, the sound adding to the whining of the crane. It all made for an unpleasant experience.

The truck Mohammad had requested was already in position, ready to receive his container, its driver standing by the rear wheels, smoking a cigarette, one foot propped up against the tire. Nicholas Krazynski had been an easy recruit. His divorce had left him with virtually nothing, he had the right kind of truck, and he was delighted to take a rush job that would pay him twice the mileage rate that he normally earned. All he had to do was make sure a specific container made it through the docks safely.

But Mohammad didn’t approach the truck right away. He had no interest in conducting small talk with the driver.