Mind's Eye Page 3

  He searched for Nick Hall, but the attempt to find himself was sheer folly. A quick search revealed that Nicholas throughout the nineties had been one of the top ten most popular baby names, and according to the US Census, over half a million people had the last name of Hall.

  His access of the Internet was almost instantaneous. Web pages flashed up with no discernible loading times. He knew that the 6G WiFi technology that had only recently come to blanket the country was orders of magnitude faster, and with a far more penetrating signal than any previous WiFi generation, but having web pages appear on a desktop or tablet when conjured by a mouse or a finger was one thing; having them pop up with the speed of thought was quite another.

  The software was spectacular. More than spectacular. Whatever search and presentation algorithm was being used was stunningly advanced. And it seemed to be capable of learning. Even after the few searches he had done, the system became more and more seamless. More intuitive. Even from the start it had somehow known when he wanted to access external information, and when he was just thinking or speaking a question, with no intent to invoke the system. It had only erred when he had spoken a question to the car’s GPS, having incorrectly interpreted this as being a direct query to the system, and responding accordingly—and nearly getting him killed in a car crash in the process.

  But now, after only ten minutes of working with him, the system had already evolved, improved, and any content of interest to him appeared magically almost before he was fully aware that he wanted it. And the algorithm read his interest with uncanny accuracy, rivaling even the most recent iteration of Google.

  Hall also found himself becoming more and more facile with viewing and digesting information while maintaining his vision. He became more adept at ignoring and manipulating the second, internal stream of data going to the visual centers of his brain, seamlessly shifting his glance to see through the top half or bottom half of his metaphorical bifocals.

  He wondered just how complex the surgery on his brain had been, and his internal Internet provided the answer before he had finished the thought. An article from the Wall Street Journal, from June of 2012, hung in the air before him.

  Neural implants, also called brain implants, are medical devices designed to be placed under the skull, on the surface of the brain. Often as small as an aspirin, implants use thin metal electrodes to "listen" to brain activity and in some cases to stimulate activity in the brain. Attuned to the activity between neurons, a neural implant can essentially "listen" to your brain activity and then "talk" directly to your brain.

  If that prospect makes you queasy, you may be surprised to learn that the installation of a neural implant is relatively simple and fast. Under anesthesia, an incision is made in the scalp, a hole is drilled in the skull, and the device is placed on the surface of the brain. Diagnostic communication with the device can take place wirelessly. While it is not an outpatient procedure, patients typically require only an overnight stay at the hospital.

  Hall examined his skull with the tips of two fingers, feeling a number of small imperfections that might have been scars, but he had recently undergone trauma so he couldn’t be sure.

  He had been sitting in the small lot of the mini-mart now for twenty-five minutes. Pangs of hunger from his empty stomach now competed for his attention with the random thoughts of hundreds of minds. This small store would not have been his first choice for dining, but since he was here, he could get some food and be on his way to La Jolla in minutes.

  He entered the store and walked through several aisles, eying candy bars, trays of doughnuts that looked as though they had been abandoned there during World War II, and frozen, microwavable burritos.

  When he saw an enclosed container with heated steel rollers in the back of the store, cooking plump, all-beef Hebrew National hotdogs, he had an almost Pavlovian response. He decided he either loved all-beef dogs beyond all else, or his body knew what it needed, and saw these as providing a quick, easily digestible injection of both carbohydrates and protein.

  A pair of long tongs was stationed nearby and he quickly began removing three dogs and placing them on buns. A few quarts of water and he’d be on his way.

  A thought broke through the noise in his head, from outside of the mini-mart, and it was clear as a bell.

  He was about to have company. He had loitered in the lot for too long.

  Someone had just pulled into the store. Someone who knew he was inside. A man named Cody Radich.

  A man who was already mentally counting the bonus money he would receive for ending Hall’s life, which he planned to do shortly, and with a ruthless efficiency.

  5

  Radich was approaching the door slowly, and Hall’s psi ability told him that the man was concentrating on appearing as casual and unthreatening as possible. He would wait until Hall was checking out, and then stealthily appear behind him, possibly even holding the door open for him. Following only inches behind, he would put a silenced bullet through Hall’s heart. When Hall collapsed in front of him, Radich would kneel down to check on the poor man, shouting for someone to call 9-1-1 as he did, as though he were a good Samaritan who just happened to be standing nearby when Hall collapsed.

  Hall couldn’t help but admire the plan, which Radich continued to examine from several angles to ensure he hadn’t missed anything. He hadn’t. And neither had Hall.

  Hall abandoned his hotdogs, wandering up and down the aisles while Radich kept his distance, pretending to read a magazine out of sight and watching him in a large, rounded security mirror that was wedged in the back upper corner of the store, and which gave a distorted but clear view of the vast majority of real estate within.

  Hall did some quick research on his internal Internet, continuing to be amazed by how quickly he could get to useful information. He waited until a short black woman with a baby stroller left the aisle Radich was in, took a deep breath, and rounded the aisle to join him.

  Radich didn’t glance up from the magazine as Hall approached, and looked for all the world to be oblivious. But Hall was deep inside the killer’s head, monitoring his every thought, and knew that Radich was as keenly attuned to his every move as a lion stalking its prey.

  Hall raised Frank Baldino’s Glock in a smooth motion and pointed it at the man.

  Radich’s eyes widened and his mind exploded in surprise. How the fuck was I made? he thought, dropping the magazine to the floor. That’s impossible!

  “Turn around,” whispered Hall. “Hands in your back pockets.”

  Radich hesitated. He had been told very little about Hall. His quarry was supposed to be bright, but completely untrained. A civilian all of his life. Athletic, but probably hadn’t been in a fight since he was in third grade. And probably hadn’t held a gun in his life. Until now.

  “You’re out of your league, Hall,” said Radich, and once again Hall was aware of the slightest echo from receiving these words both audibly and mentally. “You really gonna shoot me with Baldino’s gun? Don’t you think you should remove the safety first?” he said, sneering. And while he continued to affect a casual air, his mind remained superbly alert and primed, waiting for Hall to glance down at the gun in his hand, looking for the safety, so he could lash out and disarm him.

  Hall’s gaze never wavered from Radich’s eyes. “Nice try,” he said, keeping his voice low. The web page he had accessed, with instructions for how to operate the gun in his hand, was still up in his visual cortex. “But we both know Glocks don’t have traditional safeties, do they? As long as you depress both the main trigger and the tiny secondary trigger when you fire, it’s good to go.” He shot Radich a withering glare. “This gun has a five-pound trigger pull, asshole, and I’m guessing I’m squeezing at four and a half right now. So turn around. I won’t ask again.”

  What the fuck! thought Radich, turning around and putting his hands in his back pockets. He had been told his target was an untrained civilian, not a man who was clearly comfortable handli
ng a gun, and who had obviously done so often. The intelligence he had received had been shit.

  Radich had severely underestimated his prey. He decided he had to act soon or he was a dead man. He glanced at the round, convex security mirror in the upper corner of the store and tensed his leg muscles to launch his body backwards in an act of desperation.

  Hall danced back several steps, an act Radich caught in the mirror, just an instant before he would have launched himself. He was just able to stop what would now be a fruitless attempt.

  “I won’t hurt you if you cooperate,” said Hall, trying to appear as calm as possible and ignore his racing heart and pounding temples.

  Hall knew that Radich had been right. He was out of his league. Far out of his league. And he knew he’d be lucky if someone didn’t enter this aisle within the next thirty seconds. His psi ability told him that two people were at the counter checking out, and one other was choosing a candy bar two aisles over. But two more customers had just entered the store and his luck was about to end.

  “What do you want?” said Radich.

  “Your car keys and gun. First the keys. If I have them in the next ten seconds you survive unscathed. If not, I put a bullet in your head and take my chances. Nine. Eight. Seven. . .”

  The assassin turned, showed his hands palm up, and then slowly reached toward his right pocket.

  “I said keys first,” hissed Hall, extending his gun. “Which are in your other pocket. Four. Three. . . .”

  Radich’s hand dove into his left pocket and pulled out a set of keys, tossing them to Hall before he finished his countdown. Hall snatched them from the air.

  “Now your gun. Pull it out with two fingers and place it on the ground.”

  Radich complied.

  “Now move!” commanded Hall in a loud whisper, gesturing with his head toward the back corner of the store, where two doors were marked men and women. This would be a close call. An elderly woman would be entering the aisle in seconds.

  Radich walked to the back corner while Hall followed, scooping up Radich’s gun from the floor as he passed it. The woman cut into the aisle behind him, but Hall’s body blocked the gun he was pointing from her view until they were once again out of sight.

  “Into the women’s room,” snapped Hall, still being mindful not to raise his voice.

  He had reached into both rooms with his mind and knew the men’s room was occupied, even though it would not have been apparent without checking the door otherwise.

  “Now!” he demanded, knowing that Radich was busy wondering what twisted logic had caused Hall to insist on the women’s room rather than the men’s. Some feeble attempt at humiliation, Radich finally decided.

  Hall suspected his life continued to depend on how convincingly he could act like a bad-ass, even though, from the sickness he felt in his stomach and his pounding heart, he was pretty sure he was anything but. “I have some things I need to take care of in this store,” lied Hall. “But I’ll be watching this door in the mirrors while I do. Open it in the next five minutes and my promise not to hurt you goes away, replaced by a promise to blow your fucking head off.”

  The instant the door closed, Hall marched purposefully to the exit, glancing at the security mirror on his way out to be sure Radich hadn’t attempted to follow.

  Hall started Radich’s black sedan and peeled into the street. Hundreds of voices swirled in his head, but at a lower level than before, thankfully. He wondered . . .

  He reached out with his mind, trying to send it into the bathroom stall in the mini-mart that was receding into the distance behind him. He recognized the thoughts of Radich instantly. He had had no idea if this was going to prove possible, or how he was pulling it off, but it was working. Radich had only waited a minute before he had left the bathroom, calling Hall’s bluff, but without a car he had no way to follow. Instead, he was on the phone, reporting Hall’s position.

  I’m such an idiot! thought Hall, fuming. How could he have been so stupid as to have left Radich with his cell phone?

  “Fuck you!” hissed Radich into the phone, his thoughts as he voiced this sentiment perfectly clear to Hall a half mile away. “I earned my reputation. The problem wasn’t me, it was shitty intel. Powder-puff, my ass. This Hall knows his shit, and he has some major brass balls. And he made me somehow. How the fuck is that possible? I didn’t even know I was going to be part of the hunt until an hour ago. I swear I did nothing to tip him off. You better spread the word to stay frosty with this guy, or you’ll have more dead bodies than just Baldino’s.”

  Hall almost slammed into the car in front of him, a white Honda, as it slowed for a red light, and decided to return his full concentration to the road and his current predicament. The light changed to green and the line of cars once again picked up speed.

  He needed to ditch Radich’s car as soon as possible. But then what?

  An alarm went off in his head. Something was wrong.

  He scanned through the hundreds of voices in his mind and found the reason for the alarm in seconds. Another mercenary was approaching in the oncoming lanes and had spotted him and the car.

  Hall yanked the wheel to the right, cutting across two lanes like a maniac before screeching into a hairpin right turn, an SUV two lanes over having to swerve halfway onto the sidewalk to avoid a collision. He could read the dismay in the mind of the merc in the oncoming car, who realized he couldn’t weave his way through a dense stream of traffic to make a left turn and follow.

  Without further hesitation, the driver sent a high caliber slug through Hall’s side window as he was completing the turn, narrowly missing his torso but taking a chunk of flesh from his upper left arm. Because of the shock and the adrenaline rush from the sound of the window being shot—the safety glass now heavily veined with a spiderweb of cracks and a huge hole in its center—Hall didn’t even realize he had been hit until blood started running down his arm, tickling it.

  Hall wiped the familiar red liquid away to inspect the wound, relieved to find the bullet had cut only a shallow groove and his blood loss would be limited, despite appearances. He popped open the glove compartment as he drove and found a small first-aid kit, which wasn’t entirely surprising given Radich’s line of work. He covered the groove in his arm with an industrial-sized bandage and wrapped gauze around it to hold it tight.

  He had been driving aimlessly and now found himself on an industrial road. He needed to ditch the car. He had no doubt he could find a tutorial in cyberspace on how to steal a replacement, but he didn’t want to go that route. Radich had called in his position, and his colleagues would be descending on the area like locusts.

  Holing up had saved him before. Maybe it could again. If they couldn’t find him in four or five hours, they might have to assume he had slipped the net, in which case he could be almost anywhere, and they would have to extend the boundaries of their search perimeter over a hundredfold.

  A gleaming glass office complex, with hundreds of cars parked all around it, appeared on his right. It covered quite a lot of territory but was only two or three stories high. He pulled off and parked the car behind the building, out of sight of the road. He took a deep breath and entered the office building’s first floor.

  Hall found himself in a main atrium with fake foliage and a small stream. Very tranquil. Wide glass doors appeared on each of the four sides of the atrium rectangle, beckoning visitors into the lobbies of four different companies in the complex.

  The doors on his left had a familiar hand-painted bright red sign, WeOfficeU. He had seen their ads. It was an office co-op. With more and more people working freelance these days, there was a greater and greater need for office space and support. Individuals and very small businesses rented out offices by the month, and shared a receptionist, phone systems, parking, and conference room facilities. This allowed sole proprietors and consultants to meet with clients in a state-of-the-art office building, giving them a far more professional and accomplished aura.


  WeOfficeU might be ideal, Hall realized. The inhabitants of these offices didn’t all work for the same company, and there was likely a high turnover among tenants, so a stranger in their midst would almost certainly go unnoticed.

  He found a nook near some heavy foliage and crouched low, trying to disappear. The arm of the oversized shirt he had taken from Baldino was now soaked in blood, but the flow had largely stopped.

  What a sight he must be. Wearing bloodstained clothes that didn’t fit, a two-day growth of stubble, a hair style that could only be achieved by washing your hair in a sink with hand soap and then letting it dry haphazardly while you ran for your life, and various small cuts and bruises. At least he no longer carried an odor that would be offensive to a skunk.

  He smiled. You had to look for the silver lining.

  He thought he might have to wait until five o’clock, thirty minutes away, when the official business hours of the office were ending, but after only a few minutes of reading the vapid and relentlessly selfish thoughts of the WeOfficeU receptionist, she left her desk to make copies of some paperwork on an expensive copier in an adjoining room.

  Hall practically flew through the lobby door, detecting no one else around the reception desk. He walked quietly past the desk and through another door into the main floor. Large office spaces were often filled with impersonal cubicles in the center and offices along the walls for upper management, but the entire point of this business was to provide private offices for individuals, so there were enclosed offices throughout.

  Several tenants had their office doors open, but the majority didn’t. Perfect. He avoided the open doors and paced briskly along one wall. He ducked down as one man returned from the bathroom and entered his office, closing the door behind him. It was clear WeOfficeU was thriving and the space was at full capacity.