Son of Tesla

SON OF TESLA: Chapter 10

"HE KILLED EVERY SINGLE one of our men."

Special Agent Alex Vickers kept his eyes on the gray fedora he held between his knees and waited for Bill Brodham's reaction. His hands, long, slender, and dark, worked their way across the hat's felt brim with quiet urgency. He didn't like the way things had been going, and he didn't like what he had to say now. He'd been barely more than a kid when he'd been accepted at the Farm – what, eight years ago now? – fresh out of high school and still living in the inner-city apartment where he'd spent the first eighteen years of his life, crammed in with three younger sisters and an older brother who'd gone on to ride a beautiful chariot straight into Jesus' arms, as his mom had said. Only it hadn't been a chariot, not at all – it had been a hot piece of lead from the 9mm pistol of a rival gang member and there had been nothing beautiful about his last wretched seconds as he tried to breathe with a punctured lung.

Brodham had pinned young Alex Vickers right away for special training, and he'd been under the older man's wing ever since. Was it his fault that even a sheltering wing casts a shadow?

Vickers felt the shadow even now as he sat vigil by Brodham's hospital bed. The room was bathed in a perpetual cloud of ammonia that stung his nostrils each time he inhaled. Every surface gleamed with sterility, from the tile floor to the PVC framing around the ceiling vents, as if death could be scrubbed away with steel wool and Clorox. Getting no reply from Brodham, Vickers stole a glance at the man lying in the bed.

Covered by nothing more than a pale blue hospital gown and a thin white sheet, Agent Brodham looked less like one of the most respected senior agents at the CIA and more like a middle-aged janitor who'd spent a lifetime too close to the donut box in the break room. The flesh of his cheeks sagged just a little more than they used to. Crow's feet etched heiroglyphics under his eyes. The edge of the bedsheet couldn't quite cover the breadth of his rounded midsection.

Brodham was getting old, and Vickers was losing his patience.

"Gerry Fleming?" Brodham broke the silence.

Vickers nodded.

"Tyrone?"

Vickers grunted.

"Aaro–"

"Everybody!" Vickers seethed. "Every last man in the complex! Even offed the prisoners."

"What have we done to find him?" Brodham ignored the outburst. Vickers took it as an affirmation: Brodham was losing his edge, losing his grip on the situation. He outlined the ongoing search while Brodham sipped from a box of orange juice.

"Two dozen agents on the wire. Local PDs across the entire state have been notified to keep a close eye out for any suspicious activity and anyone matching the description of Inmate #4213."

"Photo APB?"

"Fax, email, courier, text, hell, carrier pigeon. There are more pictures of this guy in more departments in New York than Pecos Bill."

"Tell me about the car."

"Slate-blue Infiniti Q50, 2014 make. Belonged to a relatively new tech geek at the site, Travis Dellinger. We have security cam footage from the parking deck showing the fugitive opening the vehicle and starting the ignition. We also have footage taken six hours earlier showing Dellinger arriving at the deck and locking the vehicle."

"Collaborator?" suggested Brodham.

"We've considered the possibility."

"Have you questioned him?"

"We can't."

"He split?"

"He's dead." Vickers rubbed his forehead. "They all are. Every witness on site. Except you." Vickers's eyes narrowed a hair's breadth. Brodham didn't miss it.