Freedom Incorporated - Peter Tylee (best biographies to read TXT) 📗

know squat, so anything you can find is a bonus. Okay?”

They both nodded obediently. Samantha said, “Okay. But what’s the long term plan?”

“Uh…”

“We can’t stay here forever, right? What’re we going to do? Where’re we going to go?” She was the type of person that needed a certain measure of stability in her life, and in tumultuous times needed a plan on which to cling. She’d never been good at improvisation; she wanted to know what tomorrow would bring and wanted to prepare for it.

Dan stalled his answer. “Well, that depends…”

“On what?”

“On whether Jen’s alive. If she is, then you’ll stay here until I get her back.” He glanced at Simon, silently imploring him to keep Samantha and Cookie safe for that long. “But if she’s… not alive,” - he couldn’t bring himself to say ‘dead’ - “then we’ll have to plan where to start a new life. I’ll help you set up wherever you want to go, so maybe you could start thinking about it in the meantime.”

Samantha wasn’t stupid, she knew Dan would try to exact revenge for what Esteban had done whether Jen was alive or not. “And what if you don’t come back?”

An awkward silence suffocated the room. Nobody liked thinking about those things.

“If you don’t hear from me by noon on Monday, and if Simon’s Superintendent won’t endorse your entrance into the protection program-”

“Not a chance,” Simon said unequivocally without emotion. “I’m not due back at work until Tuesday so I can stall until then, but by midmorning Tuesday my boss will reject the petition and a fistful of cops will override the lock on the portal to evict you.”

“I don’t need that long,” Dan said. “Either you’ll hear from me on Monday or you’ll never hear from me again. So I want you ready to leave by noon on the twentieth.”

“Fair enough,” Cookie answered. “Good luck, man.”

“Thanks.” Dan didn’t often permit himself to reflect on the danger of his plans, but it dawned on him there was a decent chance he’d be dead before sunrise Monday. It was a chilling thought and he demanded it leave his mind, whereupon it slunk back to the depths of his psyche.

Simon fished a small pad from his pocket and patted himself down for a pen. “This is my private number.” He didn’t need to add that he only gave it out in exceptional circumstances. “If you need anything, ring once and then hang up. I don’t want you talking on that phone.” He pointed at the telephone on the lamp table. “Echelon and the New South Wales Police Department both monitor it.” He’d already ensured they weren’t carrying cellular phones; they were too easy to pinpoint.

“I’m gonna want that number too.” Dan scratched Simon’s mobile number onto a leaf of paper, and then added the number engraved into the plastic on the safe-house telephone.

“This place is always well stocked; it should have enough food to last a month. You’ll find dozens of tinned tomatoes, baked beans and tinned corn in the pantry.” A malevolent smile played on Simon’s lips. “You might even find a cookbook in the drawer, but I wouldn’t bother with it, you won’t find the ingredients for any of the recipes.”

“All right, we’re off.” Dan headed for the door.

“Dan?” Samantha stopped him with a delicate hand on his shoulder. “Please bring Jen back.” She’d sealed her emotions in order to cope with the trauma of losing her best friend to kidnap and the threat of murder. But she couldn’t control them indefinitely. Fear, anger, hurt, regret… they’d all begun to resurface. She’d pinned all her hopes on Dan.

“I will,” Dan promised, though to whom he’d made the promise wasn’t clear. It was partly a promise to himself, partly a promise to Samantha, and partly a promise to Jen. I just hope she’s alive when I find her.

Simon and Dan left, lingering at the door for long enough to hear the bolts sliding home.

“What now?” Simon asked, willing to play chauffeur.

“How about some more coffee?” Dan still had a lot on his mind and couldn’t think of a more appropriate setting to ask his friend for another favour.

“Only if I get to choose the café this time.” Simon grimaced.

“Deal.” But Dan was too agitated to wait for the café; he opened up in the car. “They’re good people you know.”

“I didn’t doubt it,” Simon replied. “Not all criminals are bad; they’re just breaking the law. It’s my job to stop that.”

“Oh, come on, you’ve applied the law selectively in the past. We both have.” Dan looked at him incredulously. Has less than a year changed him that much? “They’re activists, not rapists or murderers. They’re just fighting for the opportunity to be heard. Why shouldn’t they have that right?”

“Hey, it’s not that I don’t agree with you,” Simon said, defending his position. “But that’s why we’re cops, we uphold the law no matter how unfair or ridiculous it seems. It’s not our job to change things, we’re here to maintain order and keep the peace.” It all sat straight in his mind and he didn’t appreciate anybody upsetting the balance - his beliefs were too fragile to withstand much punishment. It had taken him a long time to justify arresting people for things that society had considered natural half a centaury ago.

Dan was deathly quiet.

“Okay, you’re right. I apply the law selectively, everyone does. If we have a choice between going after a murderer and a jaywalker, we’re going to pick the murderer. It’s simple to justify, the murderer does more harm to society-”

Dan cut him off. “Then by that same philosophy we should focus on the people who killed Katherine,” - and maybe Jen too - “instead of busting people for activism.”

Yes, it’s just a pity they’re so far beyond our jurisdiction. Police had a love-hate relationship with portals. The technology had introduced a problem that nobody had foreseen and nobody had bothered fixing with legislation. It was too easy for criminals to commit crimes bridging multiple countries, effectively hamstringing law enforcement communities that were still squabbling about jurisdiction and spheres of control, concepts that hadn’t changed for a centaury. Simon could see they needed more international cooperation to tackle increasingly sophisticated criminals, but lawmakers were content with things the way they were, possibly because the lawmakers were committing the grandest crimes. And it’s worse in America. Australians couldn’t touch Jen’s abduction case because part of the crime had happened in America, but the Americans would consider it an Australian problem.

So that left Jen with Dan as her only champion.

Simon inhaled deeply as he turned a corner. “Okay, so what’re you planning?”

“Simple. I’m going to find them and kill them.”

A chill shuddered through Simon’s body, but even more disturbing than Dan’s calm was his own willingness to help. “Are you doing this for Jennifer? Or for Katherine?”

The two were inseparable in his mind. He knew he couldn’t leave Jen. If his wife were still alive, he still would’ve done everything in his power to save Jen. But, for the same reason, he would have sought Esteban’s death if he’d never met Jen. Revenge was a primal desire and Dan had no inclination to rein in his feral instincts. He fed from rage; it kept him from collapsing due to grief. “Both,” Dan finally replied, flaring his nostrils. “They’re living on borrowed time.”

“I know.” He remembered how close Dan had come to insanity while weeping over his wife’s body, and how savagely he’d searched for her killers. He remembered the anguish Dan had suffered when he found nobody to blame, and how he’d thrown away a promising career by repeatedly disobeying orders to leave the case alone. Simon felt a twin’s sorrow for his friend, empathising with him deeply. He’d seen the determination in Dan’s eyes then, and he saw it again now, as fresh as ever. Most of all, Simon knew his friend. He knew what Dan was capable of and thinking about it paled his dark skin. He didn’t question whether Dan would succeed, not when he looked at the stony mask of death chiselled on his face. He reminded Simon of a coiled spring that was ready to disgorge its energy in one furious explosion. Simon just hoped Dan could control himself when it happened.

“How long since her kidnapping?”

Dan didn’t take his eyes off the road. “She’s alive. They’ll toy with her first.” But even if they start now, she’ll be blind in four hours. He fervently hoped they’d wait before beginning their satanic ritual of torture and abuse.

Simon sighed. “I know I’m going to regret this, but… what can I do to help?”

“What?” Dan peeled his eyes from the road and stared at his ex-partner.

“I can’t let you do this alone.” Simon’s soul wouldn’t allow it. Lord, if I’m to be proud of one thing when I’m an old man, let it be this. “You need my help.”

Dan felt a wave of gratitude and didn’t know how to put it to words. “Slime… I…”

“Yeah, I know mate.” Simon turned another corner. Their friendship had survived the interlude in fine form. Simon felt just as close to Dan now as he had before Katherine’s death. It was almost as if they were working a case together. And in a way, they were. A quick catch-up conversation and it was as though they’d never been apart. But Simon was stoic by nature and didn’t feel comfortable being that close to emotion; he twisted the conversation back to business. “So this Valdez guy, any idea which rock he crawled under?”

“No, but I know where to find out. Look, if you’re going to help then protect Samantha and Cookie no matter what happens to me.”

Simon nodded. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“And poke around the Department’s database to see what you can find on Esteban. It wouldn’t be the first time they’ve kept more accurate records than anyone else.” Dan pointed at a portal station they were passing. “Can you let me out here?”

Simon pulled to the curb. “We’re not getting coffee?”

He shook his head. “Not this time. How about when I get back?”

“Yeah, okay. Just make sure you bring your carcass back alive. Where’re you going anyway?”

Dan’s steely eyes burned. “The belly of the beast.”

*

Saturday, September 18, 2066

19:00 Sydney, Australia

Cookie busily set up his computer and got comfortable for a long stint at the keyboard while Samantha pottered around the kitchen, trying to fix something tasty from the unimaginative range of tinned vegetables stocked in the pantry. He didn’t feel safe in the safe house despite Detective West’s reassurances. It reminded him of a tomb. Police contractors had spent a lot of energy making the house secure, but had neglected the finer touches. I guess there was no money in the budget for fixtures. Tile patterned linoleum covered half the house and a coarse, synthetic-fibre carpet covered the remainder. And they both looked as if an amateur had laid them. The seams were rough and visible, and the carpet was fraying at the edges. Tasteless wallpaper, which was fading in some places and sagging in others, covered the concrete walls. Two layers of bullet-resistant glass protected the windows. Manufacturers could no longer call it bulletproof because, disgruntled, arms manufacturers had developed munitions capable of puncturing it. But two sheets would stop most projectiles that weren’t anti-tank calibre.

The neighbourhood was simply frightening. Where Cookie had expected it to be raucous, it was ghostly silent. He couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was stalking them and it gave him the creeps.

He focussed on his computer to force the uneasiness into a corner of his mind. The jack hooked