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.He glanced around.Tyler had sworn they would be reasonably safe at the farm unless the DHS launched a house-to-house hunt.But Floyd shook his head in frustration.Going it solo would be tantamount to suicide; his biometric data would by now be lodged in the hardware of every officer’s pad and squad car.He stopped, glanced around, and tried to get his bearings by studying the different structures.A diagram set on a glazed frame by the house’s entrance displayed a large property, almost two hundred fifty acres, ten times larger than when Tyler had bought it more than fifteen years before.It seemed the government had contributed a large tract a few years ago, but Tyler had not offered more explanations.Shaped roughly like an 8 and divided by a small river where the circles met, the business end was centered in the middle of the lower circle.Although most operations were automated, the farm was the livelihood of many people.But only Tyler and Antonio and his family lived within the compound enclosing the farm buildings.The workers, mostly from Chile, lived on the other side of the river, on the farthest edge of the upper part of the 8, in a row of cottages nestled by a two-story building, with labs built with subsidies from two universities.According to Tyler and Antonio, the farm was a “clean” address, widely known in farming and husbandry circles as a test bed of innovation, connected with ecological energy sources and autosufficiency—a good background to justify movements in and out of the area, and a sound alibi when stopped at roadblocks.He took another breath and let it out, long and slow.Other than a cup of coffee, he’d had no breakfast.Dread gripping his stomach had prevented him from eating anything solid.As Floyd breached the gap between two barns, he nodded to a man in overalls leaning against a wall with what Floyd thought was a knapsack strapped over his shoulder.Then he did a quick double take when he identified a mean-looking semiautomatic carbine attached to the strap.To defend them or keep them in? Floyd guessed it was the latter.Tyler was taking no chances and, in his shoes, Floyd wouldn’t have either.And then there was Laurel.His marriage had been a fiasco from the outset.So, what happened? his mother had asked on one of his rare visits to the family home in California.Nothing much, Floyd had answered, but his mother had waited, hands on her hips.But there had been no real reason.No major drama, no yelling, just the feeling that the relationship had run its course.He could never picture Carol, his ex-wife, starting a family.The author of a syndicated column on high cuisine, she spent most of the year traveling to competitions and chasing the latest recipes from French gurus.True to form, she set memorable food on his plate when she happened to be around, but other than in her career, she didn’t seem capable of taking responsibility.The loose relationship had suited him for a while, but one day he discovered he missed having children in the house and a dog in the yard.Whenever he tried to broach the subject, Carol would shrug.One day she walked away.The morning after, Floyd fielded a call from a woman with a beautiful suave voice, who introduced herself as Carol’s lawyer.Between the two of them, they took him to the cleaners.“Hello, Doc!” In jungle-green work trousers and a T-shirt that clung tightly to his padded frame, Antonio stepped over from one of the warehouses with his springy gait.At close quarters, his T-shirt was soaked, as were his trousers, and his face was shiny with perspiration.Floyd nodded, marveling at the control Antonio had over his prosthetics.If his trouser legs weren’t a tad on the short side, most people would miss the detail.They talked a bit about the weather.Then Floyd asked, “Where did you have your legs fitted?”“At Brooke Army Medical Center’s amputee-care facility in San Antonio.”“What happened?“A rocket-propelled grenade.”“I’ve noticed the ease with which you move about.Those prosthetics are excellent.”Antonio nodded.“The army can be a bitch, but they pull out all the stops with amputees.These were the most sophisticated money could buy at the time.Ossur Power Knee, fused directly to bone.The limbs adjust their motion on signals from my brain and body.The feet have multiaxial rotation and anticipate movement.”“Powered?”“Knees and ankles both.I’ll race you.”“No way.” Floyd grinned.“You have me at a disadvantage.”Antonio sighed and ran a huge hand across his face, his skin ravaged by years of unprotected exposure to the sun.He was about fifty years old—perhaps older, given his high forehead, which was clearly visible beneath a baseball cap.His nose was kinked halfway down and set off at a tangent; broken and badly set.“Nice operation you have here,” Floyd said.“Yeah.These are the intensive piggeries.” He pointed to the row of warehouse like buildings.“What are our chances?” Floyd asked.Antonio breathed deep, as if to deliver a lengthy tirade, then clamped his mouth shut as he shook his head.“Not good.” Then he sniffed.“Let me show you the pigs.”Floyd nodded at the swift change of subject and followed Antonio to a twin set of doors that slid sideways when they approached, opening to a six-by-six cubicle with another set of doors ahead.Before entering; Floyd arrested his step [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]