Freedom TM

lowered their weapons as they arrived. “Well, don’t thank us. Thank Jon. He’s the one who detected these bastards and sent out the alarm.”
    Fossen looked at his wife and daughter, then back to Jon. “I don’t know how I can ever repay you.”
    “That dinner was plenty.”
    “Look …”
    The crowd turned to see a group of darknet fighters coming out of the night from the direction the paramilitaries fled. The fighters were led by a darknet soldier in full composite body armor and enclosed helmet. He had an electronic pistol in one hand, and was guiding a dazed-looking prisoner with the other. Fossen knewat a glance that the prisoner was the Big Man who had tried to hang him.
    The townspeople cheered and clapped as the party came in from the darkness. Jon pulled off his night vision glasses again.
    The heaviliy armored soldier passed his prisoner into the custody of the sheriff. Then he just stood nodding to himself as he beheld Jon. He twisted his helmet to remove it, revealing a vaguely familiar face and a shaved head. He smiled and laughed hard as he grabbed Jon into a backslapping hug. “I can’t believe it! Jon Ross!”
    “It’s been a long time, Pete. I’m glad you’re still alive.”
    They exchanged world-weary looks. “Likewise.”
    “How’s your quest going?”
    “It’s hard to tell.”
    He turned and shouted, “Price!”
    A voice in the darkness answered. “Yes, Sergeant.”
    “Make sure this prisoner gets brain-scanned. Let’s find out who sent him.”
    As Fossen, the sheriff, and the others looked on, Jon and the bald-headed soldier walked off. “There’s a lot we need to talk about, Jon.…”

Chapter 26: // Privacy Policy
    Darknet Top-rated Posts +285,380↑
    Lots of folks on the darknet resent the random fMRI brain scans. Even though they’re administered by remote operator in a double-blind format, I frequently hear complaints about invasion of privacy. The issue is whether citizens of a democracy claim the right to lie on matters of material significance. Individual privacy must be weighed against the corrosive effect of lies in the public discourse.
    Handel_B****/ 173 9th-level fMRI Technician
    It had been twenty-one years since Stanislav Ibanescu had worn the uniform of the Securitate, but he had never stopped making a living as a soldier. The world over, war was a growth business, and he knew he’d never go unemployed like his brothers. And earlier in the evening he had thought that no one back home would have believed that he was invading America. It had all been a dream come true.
    But that was three hours ago and a long drive down dark roads into unknown captivity. Who these people were who held him was anyone’s guess—but they sure didn’t seem like a ragtag group of terrorists.
    He considered the night’s events. The op had gone off without ahitch, and they were about to kill the target subject and leave. But a counterstrike team had assaulted them out of nowhere. The lookouts hadn’t reported a thing. In fact, Ibanescu hadn’t seen more than half a dozen of his men since they’d been captured.
    Were they U.S. Army? Socom units? They were supposed to have free rein in this area. That’s what they’d been told by their contact, but it must have been a setup. Now he knew half his men were either dead or wounded, and the other half had been divided up and trundled off to god knew where. Now the tables had turned, and men who looked like science-fiction convention warriors in plastic armor and full headgear with mother-of-pearl faceplates were marching him down a white hallway glowing with light. Ibanescu was strapped to a backboard—even his head had been completely immobilized, and he knew what was coming next was torture. They were going to waterboard him, like he’d heard the Americans did. He was just hoping that this was a professional crew—one reachable by logic. One not doing this for kicks. He could then clear up this mistake. Because that was what it must be. Perhaps they were a local unit—one that hadn’t been informed. One thing was sure: this was going to cost extra. In any event, it couldn’t be worse than what he’d received at the hands of the Chechens.
    The two armored soldiers brought Ibanescu into a strange chamber filled with what looked to be medical scanning equipment— like some sort of MRI or CAT scan equipment—cold and efficient. And even though he didn’t see anything around that could be used to torture him, he