how long Carl and Diane had been ha ving an affair, because no amount of scotch would make him buy Carl’s excuse. Lom could probably show him hard evidence if Mike asked for it. But he wouldn’t ask for it, unless he had to. Let them have what privacy remained to them; it was none of his concern.
When Mike finally entered his own apartment—after hanging around outside the door for a few minutes, willing himself to sober up—he found the kitchen lights on, but the rest of the place was dark. No sign of Meredith. At least she left the light on for me , he thought, rather relieved that she had gone to bed already. He plodded heavily to the fridge and rummaged around, finding leftover chicken parmesan and a bottle of water. The chicken he scarfed down cold with his hands, licking his fingers clean of marinara afterward; the water he drained to the last drop in what felt like a few seconds. Sated and significantly less inebriated, he began the long, tedious trek to the bedroom.
But as he made his way towards the stairs, he caught Meredith’s slender figure in the corner of his eye. She was standing in front of a window, looking out.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said, approaching slowly. “But if you knew the load Leutz just dumped on me…” He stopped at the couch: Natalie was lying there, sleeping soundly underneath the blanket from his and Meredith’s bed. Her short, dark hair was branching out in all directions against a pillow, and she was clutching another tightly to her chest. “What’s going on?” he said softly.
Meredith said nothing; she went on staring out the window—which, Mike noticed, was r eflecting a reddish glare. He looked around for the source but saw nothing. He took a few steps towards his wife.
“Meredith, what are you—”
“Mike, look.”
He wanted not to look. He wanted to turn around, stagger up the stairs and fall through the bed into a deep, dreamless sleep from which tomorrow’s dawn or any dawn after that could not shake him. He wanted to put Natalie and Meredith into the car and drive straight back to New York. He wanted to go back in time and turn down the offer to take the promotion and move to Silte headquarters. He wanted Silvan to fall over dead tomorrow and end all of this insanity plaguing his and everyone’s lives. He wanted a lot of things and not one of them involved looking through that cold pane, that divider between blissful ignorance and the bleak unknown. But for some reason—some idiotic, irrational reason—he chose to walk up to the window beside Meredith and look out…and for the second time that day everything changed.
The streets of Dallas were burning.
16
The dark interior of the black SUV had been silent for entirely too long in Sabrina’s opinion. The quiet left her alone with her racing thoughts. In danger of letting her fear overcome her, she attempted to start conversation by saying, “So are we going in blind, or what?”
The woman in the driver seat beside her who, Sabrina had been surprised to learn, was the very same Skexka who had been giving orders to Jason earlier in the night, shifted in her seat and said, “We have map. Pull out your tab. Hold up for Guff.”
She held her tablet up and one of the masked men in the back—the one in the wolf mask—tapped his own against it. She pulled hers back warily; she trusted these people very little, d espite the fact that her life may soon be in their hands. The three men in the back were all stocky and about as friendly as territorial bears. They hadn’t spoken much, but Skexka said they were formerly contract officers with Southern Patrol, a private police force known for its tendency to hire based on how physically intimidating an applicant was. Almost every incidence of police violence in the southern states that Guardian had been sent to resolve by the US government had involved the Southern Patrol.
Skexka herself was
When Mike finally entered his own apartment—after hanging around outside the door for a few minutes, willing himself to sober up—he found the kitchen lights on, but the rest of the place was dark. No sign of Meredith. At least she left the light on for me , he thought, rather relieved that she had gone to bed already. He plodded heavily to the fridge and rummaged around, finding leftover chicken parmesan and a bottle of water. The chicken he scarfed down cold with his hands, licking his fingers clean of marinara afterward; the water he drained to the last drop in what felt like a few seconds. Sated and significantly less inebriated, he began the long, tedious trek to the bedroom.
But as he made his way towards the stairs, he caught Meredith’s slender figure in the corner of his eye. She was standing in front of a window, looking out.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said, approaching slowly. “But if you knew the load Leutz just dumped on me…” He stopped at the couch: Natalie was lying there, sleeping soundly underneath the blanket from his and Meredith’s bed. Her short, dark hair was branching out in all directions against a pillow, and she was clutching another tightly to her chest. “What’s going on?” he said softly.
Meredith said nothing; she went on staring out the window—which, Mike noticed, was r eflecting a reddish glare. He looked around for the source but saw nothing. He took a few steps towards his wife.
“Meredith, what are you—”
“Mike, look.”
He wanted not to look. He wanted to turn around, stagger up the stairs and fall through the bed into a deep, dreamless sleep from which tomorrow’s dawn or any dawn after that could not shake him. He wanted to put Natalie and Meredith into the car and drive straight back to New York. He wanted to go back in time and turn down the offer to take the promotion and move to Silte headquarters. He wanted Silvan to fall over dead tomorrow and end all of this insanity plaguing his and everyone’s lives. He wanted a lot of things and not one of them involved looking through that cold pane, that divider between blissful ignorance and the bleak unknown. But for some reason—some idiotic, irrational reason—he chose to walk up to the window beside Meredith and look out…and for the second time that day everything changed.
The streets of Dallas were burning.
16
The dark interior of the black SUV had been silent for entirely too long in Sabrina’s opinion. The quiet left her alone with her racing thoughts. In danger of letting her fear overcome her, she attempted to start conversation by saying, “So are we going in blind, or what?”
The woman in the driver seat beside her who, Sabrina had been surprised to learn, was the very same Skexka who had been giving orders to Jason earlier in the night, shifted in her seat and said, “We have map. Pull out your tab. Hold up for Guff.”
She held her tablet up and one of the masked men in the back—the one in the wolf mask—tapped his own against it. She pulled hers back warily; she trusted these people very little, d espite the fact that her life may soon be in their hands. The three men in the back were all stocky and about as friendly as territorial bears. They hadn’t spoken much, but Skexka said they were formerly contract officers with Southern Patrol, a private police force known for its tendency to hire based on how physically intimidating an applicant was. Almost every incidence of police violence in the southern states that Guardian had been sent to resolve by the US government had involved the Southern Patrol.
Skexka herself was
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