The Last Good Man

Gridlock

On the highway into the city, traffic has slowed to a crawl. Lincoln sits, tense, in the front passenger seat of ReqOps’ leased SUV, caught within a crush of massive trucks and tiny sedans.

Many of the sedans don’t have drivers or passengers. They’re moving autonomously, at the remote command of distant owners, and they’re following all traffic regulations, which puts them at a gross disadvantage to cars with human drivers. Horns honk and brakes slam on every time a manually driven sedan shifts suddenly from one lane to another, shouldering in front of some meek autonomous vehicle, which gives way rather than risking a collision. Human drivers further violate laws by bouncing across the median to turn around and join the lanes leaving Rabat. The exodus is heavy, but traffic out of the city is moving faster than traffic in. Traffic everywhere is red-lined. Not a surprise, given that the city is under attack.

The dashboard radio is on. The volume is low as a man speaks, alternately in Arabic and then in French, advising people to be calm, to stay home, to stay off the roads. That much Lincoln can make out.

Khalid understands more. “Did you get that?” he asks, hands tight on the wheel. “The police have closed some exits into the city center. We’re not going to be able to get back to the hotel anytime soon.”

“We don’t need to go back to the hotel,” Lincoln says. “Take the next exit. Let’s see how close we can get to the target district.”

He has watched an Arkinson fighter buzz a neighborhood of upscale houses, homing in on a column of black smoke unfurling against the noon sky. He’s watching the Arkinson now as it returns triumphant after a brief dogfight far out over the ocean.

Rohan leans in from the backseat. “You thinking True’s involved in this?” he asks.

Lincoln nods, watching the Arkinson make a wide turn toward the airport. “No way is this a coincidence. She’s got to have some part—”

He breaks off as his phone buzzes with a forwarded message. Rohan leans even farther over to get a look at the screen. “It’s a text from True,” he says over his shoulder, filling in Felice and Miles, who crowd forward too.

Lincoln opens the message to find a map with a marked location.

“Got it!” Rohan yells. “That’s the target district. What is it, like five klicks? Four? Khalid, you need to get us down there.”

Khalid tries to get a look at Lincoln’s phone while tailgating the car in front of him. “I’m going to take this next exit and—”

He interrupts himself as the phone rings.

“It’s True,” Lincoln announces as they join a slow procession of vehicles escaping the highway. He’s feeling more bitterness than relief as he accepts the call, putting it on speaker so the others can hear. He says, “You’re dead center of this civil disturbance.”

“Roger that.” Terse words spoken in crisp syllables, no apology in her voice. “You have a vehicle? Because we need a way out of here before the local authorities show.”

We. He notes the plural but doesn’t question it yet. “Affirmative on the vehicle. We’re on the road, heading your way. What’s your status?”

“He’s wounded. Not ambulatory. When can you get here?”

She doesn’t need to say his name.

Lincoln’s thoughts flow in layers, his quiet shock confined in the undercurrent: True found Shaw Walker! Not ambulatory. Not going anywhere.

From the backseat, Miles speaks in a triumphant murmur, “We’ve got him.”

“Ah, shit,” Khalid says. “Look at that.”

Lincoln lifts his gaze. Ahead is a traffic circle, packed bumper to bumper and barely moving. He wonders if it’s going to be like this everywhere, or just close to the belt highway. “We could be dealing with gridlock,” he warns True. “If you’re in danger—”

He hesitates, stumbling over the irony of what he’s about to say. His goal is to take Shaw Walker into custody, but he tells her, “If you’re in danger, leave him. It doesn’t matter. Get out on your own. Walk out, and we’ll rendezvous.”

“No, Lincoln. Negative. I am not leaving him.”

Khalid edges around the traffic circle. The streets beyond look packed for as far as Lincoln can see.

“We’re never going to get there in the car,” Rohan says. “We need to go on foot. Go in and get him before someone else does.”

Khalid says, “I’ll put the truck on autopilot.”

Lincoln addresses the phone. “True, give me some background. What kind of resistance are we facing?”

“Nothing. The sky’s been swept clean. Ground forces neutralized. Right now, there’s no one here.”

Rohan likes this answer. He grins, turns around in the seat, and starts pulling daypacks from the back of the truck, handing them to Felice and Miles.

“What’s your ETA?” True wants to know.

“Unknown.”

Khalid continues to edge forward in traffic even as he programs the autopilot. Lincoln holds up a hand in a cease-and-desist gesture and tells him, “You’re staying with the truck.”

This gets him a dark scowl. He ignores it. He tells True, “We’ll come in on foot, secure the area. As long as you feel you’re safe, you can stay with him. But do not get yourself hurt and don’t get arrested.”

“Is Miles with you too?” True asks, suspicion sharp in her voice.

Lincoln reminds himself that her loyalties are divided, that she defected, that they are not on the same side. “Miles is here. He deserved to come.”

She says, a little desperately, “He was not behind the car bombing. You need to know that.”

Lincoln doesn’t want to hear it. “We’re coming, True.”

He ends the call.