homeless guy if I don’t follow his orders and cooperate with him, but he doesn’t. And I’m glad.
Finally we get to a metal building that at least seems well kept. Two guys who look like some kind of cross between military and police are standing guard next to the door. They’re wearing dark fatigues, bulletproof vests, and black boots, and carrying machine guns. As we approach them, their bodies visibly tense, and they adjust their grip on their weapons.
“I’ll do the talking,” Barclay whispers. I’ve got no problem with that. “And remember to keep your head down.”
When we’re a little less than five feet away, with guns trained on us, one of the cops shouts, “Hold it right there. Let’s see your tags.”
05:01:05:31
We stop, and Barclay says in his most polite voice, “I’m going to reach in my back pocket and grab my face tag.” But he doesn’t make a move yet. He waits for the approaching cop to nod, then reaches in his pocket and pulls out a black wallet. From it he hands over something that looks like the most glamorous driver’s license I’ve ever seen.
I shift on my feet. I can’t help it. My body feels tense and a little too warm, and I’m not sure how this is going to work.
The cop examines Barclay’s ID, tilting it to see a hologram, and then runs it through a scanner. While he does so, we don’t say anything. I’m not exactly sure what the card says. A face tag sounds like some kind of ID, only any form of identification announces, “Hey, this is Taylor Barclay, the guy who’s supposed to be on some kind of IA mission, and guess what, he isn’t,” which, as far as I know, wasn’t the plan.
This is worse than the checkpoints I go through with Deirdre. For one thing, I know I’m on the right side of the law at home. Feeling guilty means we’re more likely to look it too. For another, I know Deirdre will fight for me. Barclay, on the other hand, will serve his own ends. He might need me right now, but if it looks like we’re in trouble and it’s him or me, I know I’ll be on my own. Plus I don’t have any kind of identification on me, at least not any that would make sense to these guys.
I shift my glance to Barclay to see if he’s giving me any kind of sign. If we want to get past them, and he can’t get us through by talking, we’re going to have to storm the entrance by force. The two of us might be able to take out the guy in front of us with the element of surprise, but we’d be dead before we got to the door.
It doesn’t matter, though, because Barclay is relaxed and patient, waiting for the cop to give him his ID back.
“Tomas Barclay, sir,” the cop says as his stance shifts a little. “I apologize for the delay, but I’ll need to report what you were doing down here.”
Barclay offers him his most dazzling smile. “If possible, I’d love to keep this off the record,” he says. “You see, my wife’s sister . . .” He gestures toward me. “She’s had a rough go of it lately, and I had to come get her. It’s not going to happen again.”
The cop doesn’t say anything, and Barclay apparently takes that as an invitation to pay him off. He pulls several bills from his wallet and passes them to the cop. “For your discretion?”
I can barely breathe as I wait for the cop to decide what he’s going to do.
If he declines the money, I don’t know what our backup plan is, which puts me at a disadvantage if we have to put that plan into action. I can follow Barclay’s lead, sure, but I’m going to be slow.
And sometimes, being slow is how you end up dead.
But right when I think he’s going to decline, the cop takes the money and puts it in his pocket. “I’m sorry for the trouble, sir. Right this way.” Then he escorts us to the door.
When the door opens, it’s an elevator, and it’s clearly the cleanest thing in this part of town. I follow Barclay in and avoid eye contact with the cops.
I let out a breath when the doors close and the elevator comes alive.
“Taylor and Tomas?” I ask.
“Later,” Barclay says.
As we rise, I can smell the difference in the