The Nervous System Read Online Free Page A

breaker,” and with a clunk the lights come on. With my ear to the ground I hear an ascending hum as the building wakes up. Maybe I imagine it cause these floors must be four feet thick.
    Guys running in my direction, light on their feet for the amount of gear they must be carrying. Radios, numbered codes being called out, call letters and verbal shorthand I don’t recognize.
    That’s troublesome. I’m a military creature. Got a good recall when it comes to codes and such. Should be on my radar.
    â€œLet’s get those hands, top of your head. Lock fingers, let’s go.”
    I do it, feel plastic being threaded around my wrists and pulled tight.
    â€œLet’s get some ID on this mook, now, now.”
    Attempt to shift my head but the boot is still pinning my neck to the floor, say: “Suit jacket pocket, right side. My laminate.” Comes out constricted.
    Trying to get a look at somebody. I hope they don’t fuck up my suit. Every time I score a new suit …
    Note the footwear, a couple pairs of hi-tech plastic and nylon in black, looking for a brand, something to indicate—
    â€œSending scan, over.”
    Déjà vu. I’m having mad déjà vu.
    â€œThat’s a roger. Let’s move, move …”
    My hands are pulled back and a hood comes down over my head. It’s cinched at the neck.
    Think Abu Ghraib, that photo, crucifixion pose, it comes to me, and I gotta say I am ever so slightly fucking terrified. There’s not even a pretense of civility, which would come with most law enforcement agencies. Wouldn’t it?
    I know better than to say anything further unless addressed directly.
    These guys are vibing contractors, private army stuff, beholden to nobody. Better equipped than our own military, I saw that myself over there. In the later days, there were more of these motherfuckers than there were straight military. Always swanning around. Better guns, better body armor, better food, better whores, better digs … Got me to thinking I was on the wrong team. Hell, that’s why I—
    Up and away. I’m lifted like a sack of rice, dudes have their hustle on, jogging me forth, swing right, down the stairs, slam through the door and out in the sickly night air.
    As we’re bumping down the exterior stairs, I’m hearing, “Subject in custody, awaiting go-to points,” the guy sounding winded, makes me think this operation is an improv, a last-minute clambake. Not that this observation matters.
    I’m unceremoniously deposited on carpeting, reckoning the interior of a vehicle, two metallic bangs, must be in the rear, most likely a van, “Go, go, go,” they’re calling, and the van lurches forward, I tumble with gravity, hit the rear doors with my forehead. Hoping they’re locked.
    Feel fucking naked. I got boxers and a hospital gown. And a goddamn Gitmo Klan Kap.
    Messing with my head. Driver going in circles, right on 39th Street, left on Sixth Avenue, right on maybe 42nd, and repeat. Trying to get a man disoriented … and worse, violating the edicts of the System (details when I get a chance), not that I expect these thug-o’s to be aware of such an elegant paradigm.
    Radio squawk. Driver or somebody saying something, and next time we hit Sixth Avenue we accelerate, northbound.

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    Trying to count blocks based on our approximate speed. Reference my mental map, dig the interlocking grid. It’s all there, laid out in my head, in 3-D, in full color.
    North on Sixth, sharp right on what I figure is Central Park South. Fucking hell. Zoom zoom, I’m counting, hard left, I’m guesstimating onto Madison or Park Avenue.
    This is making me physically sick, this … gross affront to the System. What kind of animal …
    Flat-out northbound, gaining speed. Wracking my brain over this fine how-do-you-do. Could this be FBI? Likely not. FBI don’t have no sexy boots, they just throw