Page 45 of Artificial Moon

“Even now?” I ask.

“Yeah, I’m scanning as continuously as I can.”

“Good, who knows what he’s scheming up next.”

“He’ll make a mistake and I’ll get a read on him.”

“I have every bit of faith in you, my dear,” I say. “And we can’t discount the fact that he might purposely give you a read on him, to spring a trap of some sort.”

“Or a witness might spot him—or a camera.”

“One or the other,” I say.

“Where are your kids?”

“With Kingsley and Franklin.”

“Oh? Are all the monsters out today?”

“A few of the better-behaved ones.”

“They’re good guards,” says Allie. “Crazy guards, but good nonetheless.”

Chapter Twenty-three

Norm sits alone in the dimly lit cabin.

The glow of multiple laptop screens casts an eerie blue light across his face. His fingers twitch as he watches the data streams flow across the monitors. It’s been a week since he ‘disappeared,’ slipping off the grid just as the FBI went public with their search. The world knows his name now. They know he’s dangerous. But none of them can stop him if they can’t find him.

And they won’t find him.

Crestline, California, is quiet. A sleepy mountain town tucked away from the chaos of Los Angeles. The cabin sits at the end of a winding road, shielded by towering pine trees. It was rented under a false identity by one of his goons, a wiry man named Carson. Every movement from his crew is calculated. They don’t leave in groups and they don’t talk to the locals. Cash transactions where possible, Bitcoin payments when necessary.

To the outside world, they are just vacationers renting a cabin. They only come and go through the garage. No one sees that, in fact, the vans are packed with full-grown men, coming and going.

Norm himself never leaves, doesn’t need to. Not with all the hired help and muscle.

The garage door rumbles open, and Carson pulls inside. The door closes quickly behind him. Moments later, the lead henchman appears in the living room, carrying a duffel bag, his expression tight.

“Got it, boss,” he says, setting the bag on the table. “The last of the equipment. High-performance servers, as requested, encrypted hard drives, everything you asked for.”

Norm nods but says nothing. His mind is focused on what’s next.

The transfer.

Theescape.

In the adjacent room, the kidnapped surgeon is tied to a chair. Dr. Ray McAllister—Neural-link specialist, recently plucked from his comfortable life in San Francisco. He’s still groggy, a little bruised from the rough transport, but he’s awake enough to grasp his situation. His eyes dart around the cabin, pausing on the array of tech laid out across the floor. A few miles away in town, people are probably still enjoying their morning coffee, unaware that one of the world’s leading neuro-scientists is being held captive in a secluded cabin.

“You’re insane,” McAllister mutters, his voice hoarse. “You can’t just rip the Neural-link out. You’ll—”

“I don’t plan onrippinganything out,” Norm interrupts, walking over. “I need a controlled transfer. You’re going to help me with that.”

McAllister swallows hard. “You think it’s that easy? The Neural-link isintegratedinto your brain. Removing it manually could kill you at this point.”

Norm crouches beside him, his voice eerily calm. “I don’t plan onremovingit. I plan oncopyingit.”

McAllister’s forehead beads with sweat. “That’s not possible.”

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