The Last Good Man

We’ll Say We’re Sorry Later

Every ten seconds the mother’s helper pings the cell network. The signal is routed and rerouted until it finds its way to True’s tablet, where the position of the mother’s helper is updated on a map. As long as the device goes undiscovered, it marks Shaw’s location—and with every update his location gets farther and farther away. It’s emotionally painful to watch while their pursuit is frustrated and delayed by the chaotic traffic on the outskirts of the city.

True makes herself close the tablet. Chris and Tamara are watching the signal. She does not need to watch it too. The mission is not served by her obsessing over it. It doesn’t matter that she is afraid for Shaw. Worry won’t help him. It doesn’t matter that she’s tired. Any energy she has left needs to go toward preparation.

As Lincoln eases their truck into the congestion on the belt highway, she turns to ask, “What kind of gear have we got?”

“Limited. Particularly, firearms. The terms of the warrant were negotiated for us and they don’t allow much. One handgun each, for me, Felice, Rohan. No one else is supposed to be armed.” He shrugs, deeming this requirement irrelevant going forward. “We’ve got field uniforms—adaptive camouflage, mixed-use pattern. Extras for you. Rendition supplies—hoods, body wraps, handcuffs. Trauma kit.”

Chris breaks in. “I’m leasing a high-altitude aerial surveillance platform. We should have eyes in the sky in… another twenty, twenty-five minutes.”

“If this isn’t over by then,” Felice grumbles.

Lincoln meets her gaze in the rearview. “It might be,” he allows. “But let’s keep in mind that this is not the TEZ. Warlords don’t get to operate in the open any more than we do. My guess is, Rihab’s going to want to get out into the countryside, away from curious eyes.”

“How about robotics?” True asks. “Did the warrant let you bring any shooters? Or is it just surveillance?”

“We’ve got shooters,” Rohan says.

Felice interrupts, sounding disgusted. “We’re not supposed to use ’em unless the cops are standing by to give us an okay.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Lincoln says. “We’ll use them if we have to and we’ll say we’re sorry later.”

“That’s been my strategy,” True says softly, a comment that earns a scathing glance from Lincoln. Point made, she thinks, before turning to look in back. “What kind of shooters?”

“A pair of starburst drones,” Rohan says. “And Roach.”

“Roach?” She can’t believe it. “Roach isn’t ready for deployment. It’s barely been tested.”

“Tamara has run hundreds of simulations on it,” Lincoln says irritably, like he’s argued the point too many times already. “It’s fine. And given the tiny size of this team, I want it along.”

“What have you got left?” Felice wants to know.

“One more beetle and the snake. You got any explosives? Kamikazes?”

Rohan snorts. “Not on the permitted list. Where’d you pick up the Triple-Y?”

“It’s his.”

“Huh. Well, that makes you the best-armed soldier here. You got ammo for it?”

“Not much. Just a partial magazine. I’ve got a pistol too.” She pulls it out, hands it to him. “A homegrown model that Shaw printed up. No reloads.”

He looks it over, checks the magazine. “Nine millimeter. We’re okay.”

True pockets the weapon again, wondering if it’s possible to pull this off, going in so lightly armed.

They leave the city behind. The signal from the mother’s helper leads them west along a good road, smoothly paved, that traverses open countryside. Traffic in both directions is light. Tall trees that might be eucalyptus stand alongside the highway. The pastures beyond look worn out this late in the year, though they’re still grazed by dirty brown sheep nuzzling for the last nubs of dry grass.

True has changed into adaptive camouflage trousers and swapped her street boots for the combat pair Lincoln brought along. She’s pulled a camouflage jacket on over her shirt, and a protective vest over that, also patterned in mixed-used adaptive camo. She’s got her camouflage skullcap ready in her pocket.

Now she’s eating a protein bar, watching the scenery slide past. It doesn’t seem real to her. The afternoon is so brilliant, so beautiful that it feels wrong, too much of a contrast to what she’s seen and done, and what’s to come.

Over and over, ugly memories surface in her mind: the centipede bracelet lying on the table, star fractures erupting in the windshield of the expeditionary truck, Guiying’s blasted corpse, Shaw’s horrific wound, and his agonized screams resounding through the riad.

The Rogue Lightning emblem.

His hired guns hadn’t worn it. She’d seen it used only to tag his killer mechs. The soldiers he trusted most.

Don’t think on it.

She strives to push away these thoughts and memories. No time for them now. Focus on the next phase of the mission.

But her mind turns to home instead. Not yet dawn there. She wonders if Alex is there, if they’ll ever be there together again or if he’s gone. After a time she opens her tablet and types a quick message to let him know she’s still alive: I’m with Lincoln now and this is almost over. I’ll call you when I can.

Before long, the land gets steeper. Huge, pale outcroppings of rock rise above the fields, and later, the asphalt road becomes an unpaved track that winds through austere, eroded hills. The dry hillsides support only a scattering of hardy dark-green shrubs. Taller trees grow below the road, marking the paths of trickling creeks.

Here, the signal from the mother’s helper becomes inconsistent, disappearing and reappearing as steep valleys shred the cell network, but it doesn’t matter too much. Chris is watching now from a high-altitude surveillance platform. There’s not much traffic, so he’s been able to visually pinpoint the target: a pale-colored SUV moving at a fast clip, a plume of dust trailing behind it.

Lincoln drives quickly too, passing sedans and slower trucks, gradually compressing the distance that separates them from Shaw.

She tells herself that he is still alive. He must be, because if he wasn’t, Rihab surely would have stopped somewhere on this lonely road to dump his body.