The Persona Protocol

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The voices in Adam Gray’s head were being controlling, as always.

‘There’s an intersection on your left, thirty metres ahead,’ said Holly Jo Voss through the tiny transceiver implanted in the American’s right ear. ‘Go down it.’

‘Okay,’ he said under his breath, lips ventriloquist-still. He raised the brim of his heavy black umbrella to check the street. The torrential downpour had scoured the thoroughfare of its populace, those few Pakistanis not taking shelter scurrying along with coats shrugged up over their heads. A narrow side road was visible through the spray where Holly Jo had said. ‘I see it. How far to the rendezvous?’

‘Less than sixty metres, at the far end.’

‘Anyone waiting for me?’

Another voice came through the ‘earwig’: male, young, cocky. ‘I see two assholes chilling on the corner,’ Kyle Falconetti told him. Somewhere above, a compact remotely controlled quadrotor was tracking Adam’s progress through the city. Even without the rain, he doubted he could have spotted the little drone; it was designed to be stealthy, and the New Jersey native was a skilled pilot. ‘Either they don’t got the brains to come in out of the rain, or they’re your new buddies.’

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