Freedom TM

away.”
    “To
where
?”
    Sebeck was already pushing through the crowd. “To the Cloud Gate.”

Chapter 39: // End Game
    Reuters.com
    Global Blackout Linked to Bankrupt Financial Groups— The FBI has conducted dozens of raids and made hundreds of arrests at prestigious brokerage houses and investment banks in connection with last night’s sweeping power outages.
    Pete Sebeck’s final Thread led him north to Houston, and then east toward a once bustling container port at Morgan’s Point, Texas. The glowing, golden line ran toward a massive shipping container facility that lay alongside a stretch of shipping channel named Barbour’s Cut.
    In recent days the dollar had slowly begun to rise from its historic low—no doubt in large part from Sobol’s vengeance against the plutocrats. But as Sebeck brought their newly assigned Lincoln Town Car through the vast industrial wasteland and utterly subjugated landscape of Morgan’s Point, he wondered if this place would ever thrive again. The days of ten-thousand-mile supply chains might have gone for good.
    He turned to see Laney Price sitting in the front seat next to him, wolfing down chicken nuggets and sipping a jumbo soda. Sebeck just laughed and shook his head.
    “What?”
    “You have no sense of irony, Laney. Do you know that?”
    “I told you, I was hungry.”
    “Well, I guess you’ve earned the right to eat crap.”
    A female voice came from the backseat. “Leave him alone, Sergeant. Each of us celebrates in our own way.”
    “She’s right, Pete.”
    Philips turned to Jon Ross. Their look lingered longer than necessary.
    Price scowled. “What the hell kind of name is ‘Ivan Borovich,’ anyway? I just got used to calling you Jon.”
    “Call me whatever you like, Laney. I won’t be listening anyway.”
    Philips leaned against Ross. “I like the name Ivan.”
    Price chuckled and spoke in a Russian accent. “Yeah, I’m sure the NSA will like Ivan, too.”
    Philips waved him off. “Defending the U.S. government against a hostile takeover should be worth a green card.”
    “I don’t know. I hear the requirements are getting tougher.”
    Sebeck slowed the car. “Here we go.…”
    “We’re there?”
    “No, but I think were running out of land pretty quickly on this peninsula.”
    They were now heading down along a wide concrete road apparently made to deal with a high volume of container truck traffic. The traffic seemed much reduced. They had the place mostly to themselves—although a veritable skyline of multicolored shipping containers rose to their left across several lanes of highway.
    Philips studied them. “What is the Daemon’s fascination with shipping containers?”
    Ross looked as well. “They helped spread the consumer culture virus to every corner of the world. It’s no wonder the Daemon found them useful.”
    Sebeck slowed the car again as they came alongside a truck yard, and he turned across the highway to a frontage road.
    Price nodded. “A container yard. You’re going to open a container that contains
something
. Something Sobol sent to himself. Or—”
    “Price, would you please? I can’t hear myself think.”
    “Then think
louder
, man.”
    Sebeck pulled into a driveway that surprised everyone. As he followed the golden Thread down the narrow lane, they all gazed through the windshield.
    Ross looked puzzled. “A
cemetery
? In the middle of all
this
?”
    Before them stood a rusted metal sign that read MORGAN’S POINT CEMETERY . The parcel was perhaps a couple of acres in size, and stood at the end of a long drive that placed it in the middle of a massive container yard. It was surrounded on three—and very nearly four—sides by towering container stacks. However, the driveway and the cemetery beyond looked green. Trees and shrubs covered the grounds, and a barbed-wire fence separated it from the surrounding shipyard.
    Sebeck sighed. “Well, this is where it’s leading me.” He came to a stop in a small, empty parking lot. Everyone got out and glanced around.
    “This place is positively surrounded.” Philips gazed up at all the containers looming above them.
    Price pointed at the names on the sides of the center container in each wall. In big blue sans serif letters was the word “HORAE” painted along the corrugated steel. “Sergeant. Just like Riley told us.” He turned to Philips. “Doctor, you’ve read some Greek mythology, yes?”
    “Yes, quite a bit. In native Greek.”
    “Prove to us you