Gemini Man: The Official Movie Novelization

CHAPTER 20

Standing at the Copper Ground counter, Janet Lassiter was beyond pissed off and on the fast track to meltdown.

Every day there was another crisis she had to deal with, another five-alarm fire the agency and/or Clay Fucking Verris expected her to put out with nothing more than a squirt gun and half a pail of sand—and more often than not, the squirt gun was loaded with gasoline and the sand was actually gunpowder.

Yet somehow she always figured out how to pull it all together and keep the whole goddam shit-show ticking right along when she could have called in sick. Or suddenly decided to take all sixty-four weeks of vacation time she had built up. She could have even quit outright, walked away and never looked back. Talk about AMF! That would do it for the whole sorry bunch of them, Gemini included. But no, she kept coming in every day without fail. Good old dependable Janet Lassiter, lifeguard at the covert intelligence swimming pool, where there was no shallow end and everyone was always in over their heads.

And did anyone appreciate it? Did they hell. The whole time she’d been in this job, the closest thing she’d ever gotten to a thank you was—well, she couldn’t remember any more. The job had eaten her life and rewarded her with constipation, gingivitis, and high blood pressure, not to mention the never-ending joys of working in a boys’ club, with Clay Verris as the head boy.

So with all she had to put up with, was a goddam latte every morning really too much to ask? Ten minutes she’d been waiting for her soy latte—ten minutes, which put her behind schedule. She’d already paid but it wouldn’t ruin her if she just walked out and went somewhere else. The stupid barista would probably call her name three times, then drink it herself.

But dammit she didn’t want to go somewhere else. Copper Ground was a goddam hipster hangout but she didn’t mind too much because the coffee was actually good, they never ran out of soy milk, and, most importantly, the place was closer and more convenient to her office than any other coffee shop. But this was the third day in a row they’d kept her waiting so long she was running late.

When she’d complained, they’d said they were working shorthanded, very sorry for the inconvenience. The inconvenience? They had no idea what inconvenience really was. Dammit, this was coffee. She needed coffee to help her face another day full of things that everyone said couldn’t get worse actually getting worse. What the hell was so goddam hard about making a cup of goddam coffee? It wasn’t goddam rocket science. Hell, it wasn’t even government admin.

“Hey!” she said finally as the barista got started on yet another order that wasn’t hers.

“Yes?” The woman looked up with a perfect corporate smile.

“My coffee?”

“Coming right up!” the barista said with perfect corporate cheer as she handed a cup to someone else. Again.

“Yeah? When?” Lassiter demanded.

The barista’s corporate smile faltered slightly. “Just a few folks ahead of you, then I’ll be happy to—”

“Jesus,” Lassiter turned away, fuming. This was hopeless, she thought; if she had to wait, she might as well do it sitting down. She took a step toward her usual table, then froze.

Some woman—some bitch was sitting in her chair, at her window, looking at her lousy view of downtown Savannah. All the morning regulars knew that was her place. Who the hell did this bitch think she was?

Then she turned around and Lassiter found out.

“Surprise—I survived.” Agent Zakarewski gave her the thousand-watt smile of someone who didn’t suffer from gingivitis, constipation or high blood pressure. “Sorry.”

In Del Patterson’s opinion, the best thing about DC bars was how perceptive the bartenders were. They knew when you didn’t want to talk about the game or complain about your kids or your ex or the job (which he couldn’t even admit to having). They just served you drinks, made sure you didn’t run dry, and let you go to hell in your own way. Going to hell was a very lengthy process and DC bartenders knew better than to interrupt you while you were building up momentum.

When the can of Coca-Cola appeared on the bar in front of him, Patterson thought he had to be seeing things—a pesky hallucination from a guilty conscience, which always picked the goddamnedest times to wake up and tug his sleeve. He closed his eyes. You’re a day late and a dollar short, he told his conscience. Now get lost and don’t come back without a warrant.

But when he opened his eyes, the can was still there, and none other than Henry Brogan was sitting on the stool next to him. This was no hallucination—as guilty as Patterson’s conscience was, it didn’t have this degree of wattage.

“You know better,” Henry said, sliding the glass of whiskey over to himself.

Patterson gave a short, humorless laugh. “Surprised you give a shit.”

“Well, a bunch of assassins did try to kill me on your watch,” Henry said, chuckling. “But that doesn’t mean I want to see you drink yourself to death.”

Yeah, that was Henry, Patterson thought, feeling worse. The man was full of integrity and decency, qualities Patterson was pretty sure were innate. He had no idea how the DIA had managed to get their hooks into someone like Henry but he was pretty sure everyone involved would burn in hell for it, himself included.

“The Gemini lab’s been dismantled,” Patterson said. “The cloning program is history.”

“And Junior?” Henry asked. His voice was light but with an undertone that let Patterson know there was a lot riding on whether he liked the answer.

“Junior’s untouchable,” Patterson said. “No one will bother him, ever. And we checked—there are no more clones.”

Henry nodded. “What about you?”

Patterson dipped his head noncommittally, suppressing the urge to tell him to stop being so goddam decent. “Internal Affairs called. I’m looking at charges. But if I bury Janet, I can make a deal.”

“She earned it,” Henry said.

Patterson nodded glumly. He started to say something, thought better of it, tried to say something else and still couldn’t find the words. He took another breath.

“I’m really sorry, Henry,” he said finally, and winced at how utterly lame that sounded.

But to his surprise, Henry offered his hand and said, “Take care, Del.”

Goddammit, Henry was going to beat him to death with decency, Del thought as he took it. “You too.” He placed his other hand briefly over Henry’s. “And, uh, happy retirement.”