Spark: A Novel by John Twelve Hawks Read Free Book Online Page A

blood back into his body.
    “Help … help me,” he said. I leaned down and plucked off his headset. Now he couldn’t talk to his Shadow.
    “Who are you?”
    “That’s not important.”
    Mallory started talking, the words spilling out of his mouth. “I know who sent you. Those goddamn Nigerians. Swear to God I didn’t steal their money. The market collapsed and everyone took a hit. There was no guaranteed investment. I told them that from the start.”
    “So you’re a businessman?” I asked.
    “Yes. That’s right.” He was gasping for air, and the quick puffing sounds filled the room.
    “I’m a businessman, too.”
    I took out my phone and accessed my file of emotions. About a year ago, I purchased a book published in nineteenth-century France called
Émotions Humaines.
The book had a long essay written by a French philosopher and black-and-white photographs of an actor named Jean LeMarc. Using only facial expressions, LeMarc displayed forty-eight different emotions—everything from grief to joy. I carried the book around for several months and used it to figure out what Human Units were feeling. Eventually, I realized that it was far more convenient to scan and download the photographs.
    Bending over my target, I held the phone next to his face and scrolled through the photographs. Mallory’s face showed anger, then confusion, then fear. As a pool of blood formed beneath his body, his face changed one last time. Was it boredom? It looked like boredom. Perhaps it was something different. Acceptance.
    “Cold,” Mallory whispered.
    “Your body is telling you that, but it’s not true. You’re going into shock because your brain isn’t getting enough blood.”
    “Dying.”
    “Yes. That’s a logical conclusion.”
    “I am”—blood dribbled out of the corner of his mouth, but he managed to say one last word—“dead.”
    “Me too.”

As usual, I traveled first class on the flight back from London.
    I dislike being touched—even if it’s only someone’s elbow on an armrest. First class allows me to travel within my own defined perimeter. Everything else—the champagne and wine, the cheese plate, the Dover sole sautéed in butter, the fresh-baked scones with clotted cream—was unnecessary. I told the flight attendants that I was fasting and they offered me three different kinds of water.
    When I walked out of customs at JFK Airport, I was surprised to see a limo driver holding a rectangular piece of cardboard with the message: J. UNDERWOOD—BA009 . My birth name is on my passport, but “Underwood” is on my Freedom ID cards.
    “I’m Mr. Underwood,” I said. “But I didn’t request a car.”
    The driver was a pudgy little man with a badly knotted necktie. He sighed, pulled out his phone, and checked his messages.
    “The reservation was made by Edge Tech.”
    “I’ve never heard of that company.”
    “I talked to a lady named Holquist. She said I was supposed to drive you into the city for a meeting.”
    “Okay. Now I understand. Let’s go.”
    I followed the driver out of the arrivals terminal and into a five-level parking structure. In the elevator, I noticed a pimple on his neck and flecks of dandruff on his black blazer. I am capable of feeling disgust when I encounter any obvious sign of physical decay:body odor and bad breath, a hand tremor and rotten teeth. This emotion influenced the selection of my two Shadows; both Edward and Laura sound as if they’re well dressed, healthy, and clean.
    My driver answered his phone as we left the parking structure. “Yes, ma’am,” he told the caller. “No problem. He’s in the backseat. We might have some rush-hour traffic, so I would say thirty to forty minutes.”

    It was highly unusual to meet Miss Holquist after an assignment, and the idea made me uncomfortable. Did I make a mistake when I neutralized my target? Had the British police learned my identity?
    I first met Miss Holquist three years ago when I returned to New York