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“Another,” Peaks said. “Nothing to eat.” But then, as the attendant walked away, he said, “Wait a sec. What do you have to eat?”
“We have a cheese and fruit platter, sandwiches, and pastry for dessert. In fact, we have chocolate éclairs, which look delicious.”
“The scotch. Then bring me an éclair and have one yourself.”
He downed the drink in two gulps, knowing it was a drink, or possibly two drinks, too far. Well, to hell with it. Desperate times. The most desperate ever, probably. The very nature of reality was changing, the underlying rules of the universe were being hacked. And those silly bitches thought they could deal with it? Without Tom Peaks?
Desperate times.
“Desperate times call for desperate measures,” Peaks muttered.
He used his Swiss Army knife to slice the éclair open, exposing the creamy center. From his pocket he drew out a steel screw-top tube partly filled with gray dust.
They’d given Dekka Talent an ounce.
The éclair held three ounces.
CHAPTER 15
A Nice Talk
THEY WERE IN their third stolen car.
Felony, felony, felony.
They were using money taken from bank tellers who saw nothing but a vague blur and felt a gust of breeze.
Felony. Federal felony, at that.
And they were in possession of approximately ten pounds of alien rock taken by virtue of hacking.
Felony and felony, both federal.
Malik was keeping track.
And now, as they sat amid fast-food trash and empty water bottles in a stolen Lexus SUV in a Target parking lot in Silverthorne, Colorado, they were engaging in yet another felony: conspiracy.
“Attention will be mostly on this Knightmare person,” Malik said, idly twirling a fry like a tiny baton in his nimble fingers. “But the FBI will have plenty of time to spare for us.”
Cruz was in the backseat, experimenting with her power. She had become adept at disappearing; now she was trying something very different: reappearing, but as someone else, altering her visible self. In the rearview mirror, Malik glanced up from time to time to see a partly transparent Cruz, looking sometimes like a badly lit version of herself, and other times like other people, often celebrities. She needed photos to picture the faces she mirrored.
At the moment it was pictures of beautiful women that held Cruz’s interest. Malik saw her flicking through them on her stolen phone, her expression almost giddy with the possibilities.
Great, Malik thought. And I was hoping Cruz would be the sensible one.
“We need a goal, an objective,” Malik insisted. “A plan!”
Shade flashed an irritated look at him, which softened quickly. Malik could all but read Shade’s mind: Malik had rescued them. Malik had thrown in with them. Malik was in the same danger she and Cruz were in. Shade had heard his half of a stormy, painful call with his parents. Malik’s life was coming apart. And Shade knew it was her fault.
Malik thought, Yeah, you’d damn well better be nice to me.
“According to Twitter, the center of all this is in California,” Shade said. “So that’s where we’re heading.”
“And why exactly would we be heading to the center of all the problems?” Malik demanded.
“This is all connected to the PBA. Most of the survivors are in California,” Shade said.
“Which is not an answer, Shade.”
