Unbreakable. Elizabeth Norris
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I almost expect Barclay to make a joke about selling me to the homeless guy if I don’t follow his orders and cooperate with him, but he doesn’t. And I’m glad.
Finally we get to a metal building that at least seems well kept. Two guys who look like some kind of cross between military and police are standing guard next to the door. They’re wearing dark fatigues, bulletproof vests, and black boots, and carrying machine guns. As we approach them, their bodies visibly tense, and they adjust their grip on their weapons.
“I’ll do the talking,” Barclay whispers. I’ve got no problem with that. “And remember to keep your head down.”
When we’re a little less than five feet away, with guns trained on us, one of the cops shouts, “Hold it right there. Let’s see your tags.”
I shift on my feet. I can’t help it. My body feels tense and a little too warm, and I’m not sure how this is going to work.
The cop examines Barclay’s ID, tilting it to see a hologram, and then runs it through a scanner. While he does so, we don’t say anything. I’m not exactly sure what the card says. A face tag sounds like some kind of ID, only any form of identification announces, “Hey, this is Taylor Barclay, the guy who’s supposed to be on some kind of IA mission, and guess what, he isn’t,” which, as far as I know, wasn’t the plan.
This is worse than the checkpoints I go through with Deirdre. For one thing, I know I’m on the right side of the law at home. Feeling guilty means we’re more likely to look it too. For another, I know Deirdre will fight for me. Barclay, on the other hand, will serve his own ends. He might need me right now, but if it looks like we’re in trouble and it’s him or me, I know I’ll be on my own. Plus I don’t have any kind of identification on me, at least not any that would make sense to these guys.
I shift my glance to Barclay to see if he’s giving me any kind of sign. If we want to get past them, and he can’t get us through by talking, we’re going to have to storm the entrance by force. The two of us might be able to take out the guy in front of us with the element of surprise, but we’d be dead before we got to the door.
It doesn’t matter, though, because Barclay is relaxed and patient, waiting for the cop to give him his ID back.
“Tomas Barclay, sir,” the cop says as his stance shifts a little. “I apologize for the delay, but I’ll need to report what you were doing down here.”
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