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not.”
    “You only need to pretend to work with Fordyce. In reality you’ll be a lone operator, beholden to no one, working outside the normal rules of law enforcement.”
    “I already did what you wanted,” said Gideon. “In case you didn’t notice, I fucked it up and three people were shot. And now I’m going home.”
    “You didn’t make a mistake and you can’t go home. We’ve got days, maybe hours. Gideon— millions of lives are at stake . Here’s the address you need to go to first.” He shoved a piece of paper at Gideon. “Now get going, Fordyce is expecting you.”
    “Fuck you. I really mean that. Fuck you. ”
    “You’ve got to hurry. There’s no time.” Glinn paused. “Don’t you think you should do something more worthwhile with the months you have left than just go fishing?”
    “I’ve been thinking about that. All that talk of my dying, of my terminal disease. You’re the biggest bullshit artist I’ve ever met—for all I know, this could just be another patented Eli Glinn lie. How do I know those X-rays were mine, anyway? The name was cut out.”
    Glinn shook his head. “In your heart you know I’m telling the truth.”
    Gideon flushed with anger. “Look. What could I possibly do to help? They’ve got the NYPD, FBI, this NEST group, ATF, CIA, and I’m sure any number of black agencies in on this. I’m telling you, I’m going home.”
    “That is precisely the problem.” Glinn raised his voice, angry himself. His crippled claw smacked the tabletop. “The response is over the top. It’s so unwieldy that our psychoengineering calculations show they’ll never stop the attack. It’ll be investigative gridlock.”
    “Psychoengineering calculations,” Gideon repeated sarcastically. “What a crock.” He finally started for the door. Garza blocked his path with a faint curl of contempt on his lips.
    “Get out of my way.”
    There was a brief standoff, then Glinn said, “Manuel, let him go.”
    Garza stepped aside with insolent slowness.
    “When you go out on the street,” said Glinn, “do me one favor: look at the faces of the people around you and think about how their lives are going to change. Forever.”
    Gideon didn’t even wait to hear the rest. He rushed out the door, crushed his finger against the elevator button, and took it down to the first floor, cursing its slowness. When the doors opened he ran across the vast workroom, through the sets of doors, and down the hall; the front door opened electronically as he approached.
    Once outside, he jogged down the street to a boutique hotel, where a line of cabs were standing. Screw his luggage. He would go to the airport, get back to New Mexico, hole up in his cabin until this whole thing was over. He had done enough damage. He grasped the handle of the cab and opened the door, hesitating a moment as he looked at the crowds of trendy people going in and out of the hotel. He recalled Glinn’s advice. He found the people he saw repulsive. He didn’t care how their lives might change. Let them all die. He might well be living with death; why not them, too?
    That was his answer to Glinn.
    Suddenly he felt himself shoved aside and a drunk man in a tuxedo barged past him, stealing his cab. The man slammed the door, leaned out the window with a grin of triumph, exhaling martini fumes. “Sorry, pal, he who hesitates… Have a nice trip back to Des Moines.”
    With a raucous laugh from its passenger, the cab pulled away and Gideon stood there, shocked.
    How their lives are going to change. Glinn’s words echoed again in his mind. Was this world, those people, that man, worth saving? Somehow, the very loutishness of the man hit home in a way no random kindness from a stranger would have. The man would wake up the next morning and no doubt regale his friends on the trading floor about the out-of-town dickhead who didn’t know how to commandeer a New York City cab. Good. Fuck him. More proof they were not worth saving. Gideon