Watch Dogs: Dark Clouds

CHAPTER TWENTY

Wolfe was across the street from the address Pearce had given him. He was, standing on a sidewalk that ran along a street that turned beneath an overpass. From here, he was in shadow, looking out at the pearly morning light shining off the two, silvery autonomous-car prototypes parked in front of the hotel. They were smallish cars, each with less bulk than a Prius… Cameramen were set up, a small crowd of people in fine clothing were gathered near the autonomous cars…

Wolfe wondered who, in that crowd, were the ones marked for death.

It was an overcast morning. The clouds threatened rain—maybe even snow. Or both. The wind was changing directions, jamming clouds up against one another as if piling them up.

They were starting to load people into the prototype cars. He’d need a car himself… and he’d need to borrow it without anyone knowing. A luxury car he could hack easily…

Wolfe put up his collar, pulled his knit cap lower, and got out the PearcePhone.

Bullock was a spindly, nervous man, with a high pale forehead, lank brown-blond hair, and a long, pinched nose; he was aware that his appearance belied his name. Bullock buckled the backseat belt and smoothed out his Italian blazer.

Morrison, a heavy set man with a red face, jowly cheeks, small eyes, was just heaving himself into the seat beside Bullock. Morrison grunted as he struggled to connect his seat belt. Then he slammed the door of the self-driving prototype. The smell of Morrison’s cologne filled the car.

Bullock discreetly lowered his window a crack for a little fresh air.

Morrison adjusted his tie and his suit jacket, glancing out the window at the row of reporters. He seemed pleased at the attention. He waved. Someone snapped a picture.

“Well, Bullock,” Morrison said, glancing up at the empty front seat. “I’m not sure if I feel like a pioneer or a damned fool. There’s a steering wheel up there, but no driver, and it’s going to stay that way even after we get going.”

“The cars were thoroughly tested, with dummies and then with volunteers,” Bullock said. “The steering wheel’s just there in case anyone wants the car on manual. It does have a driver…”

“I prefer my drivers visible,” Morrison chuckled. “But yes, I’m confident we’ll be fine.”

“I’ve probably been in more dangerous amusement park rides,” Bullock said. He liked Disneyland and Universal Studios. They seemed like safe artificial worlds, to him. If you had enough money, everything there was fine.

“Oh, I don’t like those rides,” Morrison said, shuddering visibly. “My grandson made me take him on one… Oh, gosh, what’s happening?”

The car had started moving. The hybrid was so quiet, its motions so smooth, that the passengers hadn’t noticed till it was underway.

“Very smooth ride,” Bullock said. But he was staring at the steering wheel. It was turning, by itself. It was like something from an old ghost movie. The directivity of the car was carried out from inside it, via computer and cameras, but the wheel was there for emergencies, and it turned as the car did, because passengers found it disorienting otherwise.

“Pretty weird,” Morrison said, looking at the steering wheel move.

“Tell you what else is weird—you and me being assigned to this car together—long with Monteleone and O’Mara in the other car. I mean, only you and O’Mara work for Blume. Monteleone is a lawyer of some kind. Near as I can figure out, the only connection between us four is Purity. And Verrick, of course…”

Morrison stared at him. “That is kinda odd… I mean, I know how you and I are connected to Verrick. Well, there’s Purity. And there’s the other thing. But Monteleone? And O’Mara?”

“Monteleone did some legal work for Verrick—setting up Iceberg Investments. He transferred some money, hid some of the trail for it. After it was, uh, washed by you guys at the Four Clubs. And O’Mara—he owns some freight planes. He helped him transport a big package from the Middle East. Knows what was in that package…”

“Really.”

The self driving car was accelerating. Up ahead was the other car—with O’Mara and Monteleone in it. They were on the freeway alongside Lake Michigan, and picking up speed. Going surprisingly fast. You’d have thought the demo program would keep these self-driving cars right at the speed limit.

“I didn’t think about it till I got here, and saw who was assigned to be the riders in the cars,” Bullock said. “You know—we weren’t the original people chosen for this. Nope. One was Bill Gates. Another was the Secretary of Transportation. Couple of other guys. Right before the invitation went out to those people—it was changed. Making it us and O’Mara and Monteleone.”

“How do you know this?”

“I noticed Verrick treating me differently. Kind of subtle but it was there. He’s gotten all that bad PR from the leaked file, having to deny all that stuff… Maybe it just put him in a paranoid, defensive mood… Then I heard that he’d put me on this exclusive list—I thought it was his way of showing things were all right with me. But when I saw you and the other three, and remembered that none of us were on the original list…”

Morrison swallowed. “You think… something’s up?”

“I think we’re going too damned fast.”

The ghost that was driving the car was apparently a lunatic—the car was now shrieking along, passing the other cars on the freeway. There was a news helicopter overhead. Bullock could hear its blades chopping away. Maybe the reporters up there would tell the cops these cars were malfunctioning. But what could the cops do about it?

Bullock got out his cell phone and dialed 911. And… nothing. It just made a buzzing sound in his ear.

The car went faster—Bullock looked up at the speedometer. It was on 90 miles an hour. The car up ahead was going even faster—then suddenly it seemed to pull away. He looked at the speedometer. The car they were in was slowing..

“There’s one car keeping up with us,” Morrison said, pointing. “Who the hell is that guy?”

Bullock looked to their left—a copper-colored Acura MDX was just managing to keep up with them. The driver was waving a phone at them.

Lean, scruffy looking guy in an old Army coat. But maybe he was on the testing team somehow. Some badly dressed engineer…

The car continued to slow. Bullock’s phone chimed and he answered. “Hello?”

“Listen, it’s me, in the car next to you…” He waved, glanced at the road to keep himself in his loan, then looked back at Bullock. “I’ve hacked into their control signal and that’s given me access to your phone too, but not for long. I can’t seem to keep the signal up consistently. They’ve got theirs coming from a stronger transmitter maybe.”

“They?”

“Verrick and Van Ness! They’re trying to kill the two of you. Maybe the guys in the other car too… I’m not sure exactly how they’re going to do it…”

Bullock felt a deep, shimmering chill go through him. “Who are you?”

“My name’s Wolfe.”

“You’re the one who slowed us down?”

“Me, no, I just noticed that…”

The buzzing sound came back and the man’s voice went away.

“Bullock,” Morrison said, a catch in his voice, “look—the other car’s taking an exit…”

The other self-driving car was driving off at the exit ramp, far ahead. Very rapidly. While their own self driving car had slowed down to well under the speed limit. Cars with human drivers were honking behind them.

“Well, maybe we’ll take that exit, maybe this is over. God, I hope so…”

Maybe Wolfe was a lunatic. He looked a little crazed. Maybe Verrick wasn’t…

Then they saw the other car, up ahead, doing a wild, rapid three point turn on the overpass, turning around, driving back along the ramp it’d just existed… going the wrong way on the ramp.

And now the other self-driving car was once more driving on the freeway, in the opposite direction—against the flow of traffic.

The other self-driving car was coming right toward them. It was less than an eighth-mile off. Cars screeched and honked around it.

Bullock could see O’Mara sticking his head out the window calling for help.

Lot of good that’d do….

Their own car was going faster, once more. The speedometer read 50, 60, 70… 80…

“Bullock!” Morrison was almost sobbing. He was grabbing the back of the seat in front of him, knuckles white. “It’s coming right at us! It’s going to hit us! It’s going to hit us head on!”

Bullock unbuckled his seat belt, and half climbed over the seat in front of him, so he could reach the steering wheel. He tried to turn it, not too sharply, so it’d go onto the shoulder.

It resisted his grip. It turned the other way, staying in the lane, the “ghost” far too strong for him. And it was still accelerating.

“The brake, Bullock!” Morrison shrieked. “Climb over and hit the break!”

Bullock saw the emergency brake, pulled it—and the car squealed, and spun around, out of control. Car screeched around them, horns honked. He heard a siren somewhere.

Bullock felt himself catapulted up front. The side of his head cracked into the steering wheel. He got up, sitting up in the front seat—just in time to see the car straighten itself out. The emergency brake popped out of activation position and the self driving car headed right for the other suicidally robotic vehicle.

The two self-driving cars were a few seconds from collision. Bullock could see the terrified faces of O’Mara and Monteleone.

“Bullock!” Morrison shrieked. “Do something!”

Then a beeping sounded from the blinking self-steering indicator on the dashboard. The words Automatic Driving Signal Interrupted flowed digitally by on the small billboard screen…

Their self-driving car veered, suddenly, to the right, bumping onto the road shoulder. It bounced, swerved, fishtailed… and slowed. Then it came to a sudden stop.

Heart pounding, Bullock turned to look out the back window—just in time to see the other self-driving car driving headfirst into the very large flat silver grill of an enormous semi truck.

The self-driving car crumpled, flew to bits, flame spouting up around the semi-truck which went swerving into the left hand shoulder… it piled into the freeway divider, ripping up great swaths of white metal and then stopping about seventy feet from Bullock. But other cars were swerving, losing control, spinning…

“Oh God,” Bullock said.

Morrison was jumping out of the car, running wildly, shouting, stumbling…

“Morrison, no!” Bullock shouted.

But that’s when a 1990s era station wagon, screaming out of control, slammed into Morrison, and dragged him under it, past the remaining self driving car.

The other cars were moving on, past the wreckage, or pulling over. The prototype car seemed to stall, then.

Bullock decided it was safe to get out. He felt dizzy as he clambered across the front seat, opened the door, got out of the car, and stumbled toward the ditch on the other side of the shoulder. The wind off the lake stung his nose. He liked the feel of it. It seemed to calm him a little…

Morrison was dead. O’Mara was dead. Monteleone was dead…

Bullock heard a whirring sound, turned, and saw the self-driving car’s lights coming on. That ghostly steering wheel was turning once more. It was turning toward him.

The car was going to come after him, now. It was going to finish what it had started.

Then another vehicle was coming—backing up along the road shoulder. It was the coppery Acura. It kept going, honking… and he realized the driver wanted him to get out of the way.

Bullock turned and jumped into the ditch. The Acura was a blur in his peripheral vision. He heard a loud metallic crack, looked up to see the Acura, more than double the size of Blume’s prototype, smashing its rear end into it, crushing the self-driving car’s front end and forcing it into the freeway.

The Acura then drove forward, pulling up close to Bullock… and its engine died. The driver of the Acura tried to restart it. But it only whined. Crashing into the now-defunct self-driving car had damaged the Acura too.

The driver got out, ran around the front of the car to Bullock. It was the man who’d called himself Wolfe. He was looking around, with an air of urgency that was just short of desperation.

“Did… did you stop the car I was in, somehow?” Bullock asked.

“Yes. Couldn’t keep control of it though. And now the car I was in is stopped too. And that’s not part of my plan.” Police cars were arriving, beyond the crashed semitruck. The truck driver was getting out, unhurt, shouting to the police. “They’ll be here in a second. Do you think you can make it over that fence, Bullock?”

Bullock turned—and saw a hurricane fence about twenty five feet high.

“I… don’t know. Doubt it. I don’t want to go over it. Want the police. They’ll be here in a minute…”

“Look, you can’t trust the cops, Purity has friends in the department. Verrick wants you dead! You’ve got to…”

Then another car weaved past the ones pulled up behind the wreckage, and drove up to them. It pulled up sharply. It was a Toyota Camry. A young woman was behind the wheel.

“Wolfe! Get in!”

“Seline! What are you doing here?”

“I came to get your ass out of this mess! Get the hell in the car, Wolfe! Him too if you want!”

Wolfe opened the back door of the Camry, and Bullock felt himself shoved headfirst partway into the vehicle. “Get in, Bullock!” Wolfe said. “Or I’ll kick your head in! Get in the car!”

Bullock climbed the rest of the way in, Wolfe got in with him, and hadn’t quite closed the door before the Camry raced off down the road.

More sirens were warbling up from behind.

“With any luck, they’ll be too busy with this mess to follow us,” the woman said.

Wolfe looked at her. “What the Hell? Where’d you get this car? You hot wire it?”

“No! I’m not like you, Wolfe! I rented it! Hello, it’s called a credit card!”

“Oh. But… Seline… How’d you find me?”

“Never mind.”

“You followed me!”

She was silent for a moment. Then she shrugged. “So what? How’d we first meet? You were following me!”

“Yeah but… this is more like stalking.”

“You better be kidding or you can get out right here.”

Wolfe laughed. “I was. Sort of.”

The woman took the exit, and drove off, fast as she could, taking turns frequently…

“The cameras,” Seline said. “They going to track us…?”

“Got my phone set to blur them as we get close. Where we going?”

“The safehouse.”

“Can I get out here?” Bullock asked.

“No,” Seline said.

“Could you turn me over to the police?”

“No,” she said.

“I’m going with you two?”

“Yes,” she said.

Bullock leaned back on the seat. He felt like he was going to faint.

He buckled his seat belt, and closed his eyes.