Daemon

possibilities. ‘So the Daemon is not invincible, after all …’ He gestured to the nearby wet bar. ‘A scotch to celebrate?’
    The Major shook his head. ‘It’s a bit premature to be celebrating. In any event, I’ll be leaving you in a moment.’ He clicked on his own intercom button. ‘Roberts, leave me off at the next crossroads.’
    ‘Affirmative, sir.’
    Vanowen raised his eyebrows, surprised that The Major knew his driver’s name.
    ‘Nothing has been left to chance, Mr Vanowen. You have important work to do for us. See that you achieve your objectives.’
    In a moment the Escalade slowed at a rural intersection – two county roads meeting in the middle of nowhere beneath a lamp swirling with moths. The Major turned to Vanowen. ‘We never met.’ He was gone before Vanowen could say a word. The doors locked immediately after him. Vanowen watched a sedan emerge from the shadows to meet The Major. In a moment, Vanowen’s Escalade was moving on, back into the darkness on the other side of the intersection and down the country road, toward a smudge of light on the horizon. Distant suburban sprawl.
    Vanowen exhaled in relief. That had gone extraordinarily well. Better than he could have imagined. So the wise men weren’t holding him responsible? The Daemon was widespread. He found it strangely reassuring – especially since the powers that be weren’t even fazed. Matthew Sobol had underestimated them, and they were already taking steps to turn this situation to their advantage. In fact, he was going to have that celebratory scotch, after all.
    Vanowen pulled a bottle of thirty-year-old Macallan from the minibar and poured three fingers, neat. He lifted the glass and sighed again in satisfaction, appreciating the caramel color against the backdrop of the headlights. Not only was he going to free himself of the Daemon, but he stood to make billions doing it. This was the very essence of capitalism: thriving on chaos. True, there would be a temporary economic meltdown, but like pruning a tree, it would grow back fuller and healthier than before. But thoroughly under their control. He raised his glass and toasted. ‘Here’s to you, Mr Sobol.’
    Beyond his scotch glass, Vanowen glimpsed a dark shadow growing ahead. Half a second later it came screaming out of the blackness. It was a car with its headlights off. Vanowen’s driver screamed.
    A Lincoln Town Car nailed the Escalade dead-center in the front grille at a combined speed of over 150 mph – instantly pancaking the sedan up to its rear passenger seat with a powerful BOOM and flattening the armored Escalade up to its front windshield. This sent the Escalade’s V10 engine plowing into the front seat and blasted the inch-thick windshield out of its mountings, where it tumbled crazily hundreds of yards down the road.
    After the initial impact, the wreckage of the Escalade sheared away from the Town Car and went into a wild roll, sending pieces of metal and armored doors flying. What remained of the SUV landed upside down in the opposite lanenearly a hundred yards farther on. Smoke and steam billowed from the wreck.
    After a few moments of dead silence, headlights appeared in the distance, back the way the Escalade had come. They grew rapidly brighter, accompanied by the growling of a powerful engine. Soon, a black convertible Mercedes SL Sports Coupe arrived and rolled to a stop near the start of the debris field. Its xenon headlights were aimed at the wreckage of the overturned Escalade, bathing it in white light.
    Twin black Lincoln Town Cars, with their headlights off, pulled up behind the Mercedes like guardians. The throbbing engine of the coupe cut off, but the headlights stayed on.
    In a few moments the door opened, and the dark form of the driver strode calmly into the light of his own headlights.
    Brian Gragg gazed intently at the wreckage.
    He was reborn. Gone without a trace were the tattoos and the piercings and the unkempt hair. In their place was a perfectly groomed and successful-looking young man. Dressed as Sobol might dress, all in black with tailored slacks, silk shirt, and sports coat. Except for the black synthex gloves and sports glasses he wore, he looked like any other Austin tech entrepreneur. He was now invisible to authority. A man of substance.
    He sniffed the night air. It was thick with moisture and the aroma of field grass. The din of crickets filled his ears. He was never more alive than now. Never more happy. And