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“How do you kill it?”
Wren laughed. “If they spontaneously reanimate, go find the ammunition and then reload their magazines, and then manage to get around the fail-safe of a human controller giving them open ROEs, then you just have to shoot them between the eyes.”
For the first time since the tarp came off, Zack looked away from the robot and back to Wren. “And you know this, how?”
“Lars Halverson himself told me. The scanners and camera ports are vulnerable. A well-placed shot will bring it down.” When Zack kept staring at him for more explanation, Wren shrugged. “What can I say? These metal bastards used to scare me, as well.”
“I don’t think I’d want these guys hanging out in my basement.”
“I’m the only one with the code to this room; the human controller for the Sentries has been reassigned and his workstation shut down. These sixteen units will stay right here until this problem goes away and Anton decides it’s safe to employ them again.”
Zack said, “And I’m going to come down here, periodically, and make sure these storm-trooper-looking jokers are minding their manners.”
Wren laughed as he threw the tarp back over the robot, shut off the lights, and relocked the door behind them.
TWENTY-SIX
Beacon Hill is one of the most desirable neighborhoods in Boston, adjacent to both the Charles River and Boston Common, in the center of the city. The first home was built here in 1787, and the Massachusetts State House sits on Beacon Street.
Most of the homes here are Federal-style row houses, many fetching in the ten-million-dollar range.
A pair of radio cars for the Massachusetts State Police sat parked, nose to nose, on Revere, just east of Grove. Two identical vehicles, both empty and dark, had been parked in front of one of the massive townhomes a half block away, and yet another pair of cars blocked access from the east, just west of Phillips Street.
Six troopers, all with wide-brimmed hats, Smith and Wesson pistols on their hips, and blue zip-up jackets identifying them as belonging to the Massachusetts State Police, stood around the cars on Grove Street, chatting with one another just after midnight, when a gray GMC Sierra with the emblem for Massachusetts Automation Endeavors—Security Division rolled into view.
One of the officers climbed behind the wheel of one of the patrol cars, ready to move it out of the way if his partner gave an all clear, while another pulled a flashlight off his belt and stepped up to the slowing truck.
Leaning into the driver’s-side window as soon as it was rolled down, he shone the light not in the driver’s eyes but close enough to illuminate him.
“Evening,” the man with the goatee said as he took off his glasses, and then he handed over an ID card attached to a lanyard.
“Is it?” asked the trooper as he looked over the proffered credentials.
The driver glanced down to his watch. “Morning, I guess. Crap, I’m late.”
“There’s three of you guys here already,” the cop said.
“Good to know.”
The trooper continued looking at the ID card. The face of the driver seemed to match the photo, close enough, though it might have been an older picture. He asked, “You switching to four, or are you relieving somebody?”
A shrug from the man behind the wheel. “Think we’re switching to four. Lot of crazy stuff going down.”
The trooper sniffed. “Somebody doesn’t think the Staties can handle it?”
“All’s I know is I’m getting eight hours of overtime.”
“I hear you.” The state trooper looked back towards the man.
•••
Scott Kincaid told himself not to worry, even though this exchange was taking longer than he’d anticipated.
The troopers hadn’t been expecting Andrew Danvers to arrive right now, but Lancer’s physical appearance was basically the same as the ID, he wore the uniform, and the gray Sierra fit in with what they would be expecting to see if another company security man did, in fact, pull up. Moreover, all the driver’s replies to the trooper’s questions were perfectly in keeping with someone who worked a security posting.
It was confirmation bias, and Scott Kincaid found it to be an effective tool in social engineering.
But that wasn’t all he had on his side tonight. Six hundred feet above him an ISR quadcopter watched over the street, tracking the patterns of those below. ISR coverage had been going on here for over a day, and the operations center had provided Lancer with radio calls between the troopers indicating that their protocol for a company security shift change at the house did not involve the troopers contacting the Mass Automation security men already at the protectee’s house before letting new arrivals on scene.
