Breece smiled to himself, spoke calmly back. “Maybe you’re the one who’s out of line, Zara.”

“This is your last warning. I won’t tell you again.”

Breece held the smile. “Keep your eyes on the news.” Then he cut the connection.

Three towns down the road he pulled the Hyundai into a rented storage building. He emerged twenty minutes later in a late model Lexus convertible, trim, clean shaven, unscarred, his hair a short sandy brown. The micron-thick gloves, mask, and lip liners that had captured most of his DNA were nothing more than an oil blot now. The slate he’d used was a smoldering hunk of plastic. The clothes and fake hair and fake belly were gone, burned, replaced by expensive slacks and a linen shirt. Inside the garage, DNA-destroying enzyme fog was even now erasing any traces of him from the car and building. In the unlikely event that FBI or ERD ever traced the signal back, it would lead them to the diner. And from there to nowhere. Even if, somehow, they got to this garage, they would still be no closer to him.

Hiroshi and Ava and the Nigerian all reported just as clean.

Breece retracted the top on the Lexus. The sunshine bathed him in its warmth and brought a smile to his face. What an excellent day this was shaping up to be.

I teach you the overman, Nietzsche had written.

Oh yes, Breece thought. I am the overman. Man is something I will overcome.

He took manual control of the Lexus, put his foot down, and drove south in the brilliant morning sunshine, and towards the prep for the next mission.

The man code-named Zarathustra stared at his phone with cold dark eyes.

Chapter 8: A Good Life

8

A GOOD LIFE

Mid October

Sam saw the news from the US from time to time. Stories of the Copenhagen Accords crumbling. Vietnam and Malaysia following Thailand out. India, a rising superpower, caught red-handed encouraging research into Nexus and other prohibited technologies inside its borders.

It’s about the money, Nakamura had taught her. Rich countries don’t mind Copenhagen. But for countries still wrestling with poverty, the technology can make a huge economic difference. The motivation’s higher.

Well, now she could see that in action. And worse. Replays of the attempted presidential assassination. Stories of Nexus used for abductions, thefts, rapes.

Sam’s blood pressure rose at every news report. They’d stick with her, troubling her for days as she turned them over in her head, wondering what they meant, how she thought about this. They tormented her until she was forced to turn them off, stop watching the news altogether.

Six months ago, all those stories would have made sense to her. Nexus was a mind control technology, pure and simple. As bad as DWITY, the do-what-I-tell-you drug. As bad as the Communion virus that had taken away her childhood and everyone she loved with it. Worse, even.