that Lancaster had still felt dirty and threatened, as if the last little push into unnaturalness could happen at any time.
Patterson had assured him it would not. He’d engineered all sexual motivation out of MNK-1. In essence, while scientists and engineers all over the world were trying to make robots more human, Patterson had made a human into a very cunning robot, literally programmable, and MNK-1 had been programmed to brutalize anyone Lancaster chose, better than a whole army of slaves. The buyer’s will alone ruled the creature.
Fucking nuts, that’s all Lancaster had thought. Souk had been demented, but Patterson was nuts.
He had arrived back at the hotel in a state of disorientation, his mind reeling from the sight and the smell and especially the sound the creature had made.
Lan-castaaa, it had cried out after him, the eerie sound of its voice chasing him down the hall. Lan-castaaa—he still heard it in his sleep sometimes. So he’d stopped sleeping. Mix that with a few drinks, and he might have blubbered more than he’d meant to, though God only knew what. He’d woken up the next morning with the hangover from hell and headed back to the States with Crutchfield by his side—his hands clean, his conscience clear, and his course set.
And so help him God, he still could not believe Patterson had told that bastardish thing his name. Kill it, he’d told the doctor. Destroy it and dispose of any and all evidence that it had ever existed. Christ. MNK-1 had been a Navy SEAL, and Patterson had utterly ruined him.
“There’s a woman with Farrel,” Crutchfield said, still on the phone. “Neither of them recognize her. She’s not one of the SDF women.”
“Bring her in. Rock and King can have her, too.” There would be no loose ends on this mission, not a black heart left beating.
He looked down at the chessboard set up in front of the windows overlooking the city’s lower downtown. He’d done a lot of good work in Washington, D.C., over the last forty-five years. At seventy years old, he’d spent his whole life in service to his country. If at one point he’d seen a way to further the interests and better protect the United States of America, by God, he’d taken it, and if he’d benefited financially from his vision and his efforts, by God, he’d earned his money the hard way.
But he could feel the noose tightening around his neck. Too many things weren’t going his way, too much unfinished business from too many missions was starting to accumulate in all the wrong places, and here and there around Washington, people were starting to notice that it was all sliding in his direction.
It shouldn’t have turned out that way. Expanding LeedTech’s business to include a few dozen transactions with Atlas Exports shouldn’t have gotten away from them. There shouldn’t have been any mistakes, and there hadn’t been—until J. T. Chronopolous. He’d gone rogue almost from the get-go, losing his memory and taking the name Conroy Farrel and setting out on his grand quest to destroy everything Randolph had worked for all his life.
He wasn’t going to let that happen.
Randolph looked down at the chessboard again, and picked up one of the heavy pieces, his favorite, for good luck. It was a rook, the white rook. He slipped it in his pocket and lifted his gaze back to Crutchfield.
“It’s time,” he said. “You’ve got Skeeter Bang’s number. Go ahead and make your call.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Keeping Corinna to a low rumble, Con turned onto the street fronting the Tatsunaka Produce buildings and headed back into the neighborhoods of the west side. He knew what he was looking for—a restaurant, or some other public place where Jane could either call a taxi or make a phone call to get picked up, a place where he could dump her. Without the Steele Street guys on his ass, he could take the time to get the job done, to just get out of the car and physically pry her out of the passenger seat.
The sooner the better. This deal was done, the escape over. He needed to check in with Jack and Scout, see where they were, what their ETA was for the Star Motel, and then head there himself.
Or he could drive all night long … just drive, on and on and on.
He reached up and rubbed the side of his arm where the Halox dart had gotten him through his coat. His skin was hot at the