Written in Fire (The Brilliance Trilogy Book 3) by Marcus Sakey Read Free Book Online Page A

that he realized that was what was haunting him. A dead teenager missing a shoe. That was the real reason he’d beaten three men senseless this morning. And why just now his muscles had moved ahead of his mind. He made himself take a deep breath, and saw the fear in Ethan’s eyes, and his own rage drained away as swiftly as it had arrived.
    “I’m sorry.” He let go of the doc. “I’m just tired of people who never have to make these decisions telling me that I’m a monster.”
    Ethan stared at him. Opened his mouth, closed it. “Soren would have killed my whole family. You saved my wife and daughter. We may not always agree, but I will never think you’re a monster.”
    Cooper nodded. Started away.
    “A wee bit temperamental, maybe.”

    Cooper had anticipated a crowd of milling thousands, had envisioned loud conversations and the yells of children and maybe even some laughter. Instead, there were about a hundred people listlessly wandering the floor of the arena, speaking in whispers, their eyes carefully downcast. Dozens of armed soldiers watched them. The feeling was of a prison yard, or a zoo.
    Beyond the floor, the seats had been removed, and the slope built out in tiers of prefab rooms like LEGO blocks, row upon row rising into darkness. The cavernous stadium was hauntingly quiet, the murmur of voices from the floor faint against the weight of all that space.
    Someone planned it in advance. Cooper heard Ethan’s voice in his head. What are the odds they did it out of the goodness of their hearts?
    The soldier at the base of the Section C stairwell had a spray of pimples across his chin. He scanned their badges, then said, “Need me to unlock one, sir?”
    “They’re kept locked?”
    “Yes, sir. For safety.”
    Cooper stared at him, said, “C-6-8.”
    The guard started up, and Cooper followed, one hand tracing the rail, smelling old beer and counting. Seven to a row, twenty rows to a section, twenty sections, just shy of three thousand of them. Three thousand cages.
    Cages for people like you.
    When they reached Vincent’s, the guard swiped his ID card, then readied his rifle and said, “C-6-8! Coming in.” He reached for the handle. Cooper stopped him. “I’ve got it.”
    “Are you sure?”
    “I’m sure.” He waited for the guard to walk away, then opened the door.
    The prefab was maybe eight feet by four, the size of a walk-in closet or a sheet of plywood. A windowless box with just enough room for a bunk and a chemical toilet, the reek of which filled the air. The man lying down had the fine features of actors in scotch ads, although the black eye and broken nose diminished the impact of his good looks. Without shifting his gaze from the fluorescent, Vincent Luce said, “You’re not a guard.”
    “My name is Nick Cooper. We need to talk.”
    “About?”
    Cooper gestured at the door. “Want to get some air?”

    The quietest space they’d been able to find was the old press box, where tri-d cameras would once have recorded Knicks games. Vincent leaned against the exterior wall, his eyes staring out at the arena-turned-prison, battered face reflected in the glass. “Is this where you do the waterboarding? I should tell you, I don’t know any secret abnorm plans.”
    “I want to talk about Dr. Abraham Couzen.”
    “Are you kidding me?” The abnorm spun, fire in his eyes. “Unbelievable.”
    Cooper had been about to explain, but stopped himself. That’s not defensiveness.
    “First he outs me to my fascist asshole neighbors, who . . .” He caught himself, bit off the sentence. “And when I make the scared, stupid decision to come here, he wants to save the day? Screw Abe. I’d rather stay than have him be the one who gets me out.”
    “I thought . . .” Cooper paused. There was something he was missing here, something obvious.
    “What, is this his idea of a romantic gesture?”
    Oh. Cooper glanced sideways at Ethan, who gave a hey, news to me shrug. “So you and Abe are a