Tier Threes couldn’t do it. Many Tier Twos couldn’t do it well, and didn’t advance until they could. Most mind thieves couldn’t do it either. But Quinn could.
And it was a thrill like no other.
After regaining her equilibrium, Quinn relaxed and enjoyed the flow, letting it swarm past her. Then, new data came. The good stuff, the stuff the mind worked harder to conceal, all part of its attempt to protect itself and convince the target that they really were a good person. Deeds involving treachery, lying, greed, evil. The stuff of corruption, and the world’s suffering.
Then a slew of vivid memories came at her—shady underground information dealers, disgusting dark alleys that reeked of urine and vomit, and images of sex workers (three of them, dangerously young) servicing Clive all at once. Oh, the amygdala and its emotion-driven memories.
Quinn blockaded the vivid imagery with her own thoughts, conjuring up memories of things that grounded her, things that made her her, so she wouldn’t get lost in the morass. Butterflies. Daria. Correcting the wrongs of the world. That stone apartment building on Hillcrest Avenue in Mayfair. Then…
Noah. His lips on hers, her legs wrapped around him.
That was a new one. Quinn felt a wisp of a giggle run through her mind, finding it funny that her one-night stand served as another way to steady herself while she illegally jacked the mind of a corrupt CIO. Thank God Clive had no access to her thoughts.
Then, just like that, she was back in the library, which was less foggy now, its shelves and books back where they belonged. The image reflected Clive’s actual library, which they’d passed and peeked inside, and probably where Clive had last been before going to bed for the night.
A hand. Someone touching her. Quinn’s eyes opened, and she saw Daria’s dark eyes watching her, her expression showing that all was good.
They began packing up. When their equipment was safely stowed away in their jackets and pockets, they quietly shut the door and headed downstairs. Quinn took one last look at the greenhouse window and its leafy display as they made their way back to the laundry room. Once outside, they would enable the alarm system again and leave, knowing that the toughest part of the job was behind them and that they’d taken one giant step closer to their lifelong dream.
But when Quinn reached the end of the hallway and entered the laundry room, she halted.
There, blocking their exit, were two huge men.
Chapter 9
Quinn’s breath caught in her throat as a surge of adrenaline coursed through her. Two men, one dark and one pale, both covered in tattooed muscles. Hired thugs.
But how had they known? Why hadn’t Daria gotten an alert?
Quinn pulled out her energy weapon and aimed it at the two men. She heard Daria gasp behind her.
She couldn’t use the weapon. If she hobbled them, that would find its way into a police report. Once the Protectorate saw the report—they monitored all EDPD reports—they would immediately know that Quinn had violated an ironclad rule by using a deadly weapon. They would cut her and confiscate the weapon, ruining all her plans. And Quinn refused to kill two security thugs, even if the Protectorate would never find out. That went against her own ironclad rules.
But she wouldn’t need to fire the weapon. In her experience, the mere sight of the shiny thing and the prospect of having their tender tissues instantly burned to a crisp would be enough.
The paler of the two thugs stepped back, his hands in the air and his eyes on the weapon. But the dark one kept his eyes trained on her. Before she knew it, he was two feet from her and ready to strike.
Her bluff called, Quinn stuffed her weapon away and prepared herself. Her kick lacked the power it would’ve had if she’d had more time, and it slowed the thug down only for a moment. Before she could recover and take her next shot, he swung his fist into her cheek, slamming her into one of the shelves before she fell to the floor, a large bin of laundry soap landing next to her and the powder flying everywhere.
She heard screaming. Daria!
The pale thug had grabbed Daria and shoved her against the double washing machine unit. There was a horrible crack as Daria’s head collided with the glass window, silencing her scream as the blow knocked the wind out of her. And in that moment of awful, furious silence, Quinn heard another terrible sound… the distinctive click of plastic on tile.
Their data storage device, the one that held everything the mind reader had filched from McCloskey’s mind. Daria had dropped it.
Quinn leaped up, but the dark thug blocked her way and took aim at her again. This time she blocked the punch and landed her boot in his groin, and he gasped in utter pain and surprise.
The pale thug kept attacking Daria, slamming her against the washer again and again until the glass cracked. It was like he wanted to hurt her more than he wanted anything else, including the data they’d stolen. Quinn fumbled with her inner jacket pocket, looking for yet another weapon, her Hail Mary. She found it and yanked Daria’s attacker away from her, quickly pricking him with the micro-needle. He ceased his assault and his eyes went to half mast, until his thick body went lax and began to list. He hit the side table first, collapsing it, and the piles of folded and unfolded laundry slid to the tile floor. He landed on top of the laundry, out cold.
“Quinn!” came the screech.
Before Quinn could turn around, the dark thug grabbed her from behind, locking her into a bear hug, her injection device falling from her hand. He lifted her small body off the ground and yanked her back like she was nothing but a rag doll. When he braced his arm around her neck, she reacted quickly, digging her boot heel into his shin, just enough to shock him and loosen his grip on her just slightly. She then delivered an elbow to his ribs and another to his face, further loosening his stronghold until she could turn around and left-hook him with her brass-knuckled hand.
But it didn’t land quite right, and the jaw didn’t compress under the force of metal on bone. It shocked the guy, but he recovered quickly and lobbed a meaty fist at her. Pain exploded on her cheek once more, this one radiating through her face and skull as she crashed into the shelves again, this time dislodging one of them.
The thug came at her again, but he slipped on the soap powder. Quinn took the microsecond of opportunity and aimed for his knee, disabling him for a moment as she punched him again.
But this guy, while not especially skilled in the fighting arts, was solid. Solid and strong, like an unmovable beast, rendering the street-fighting skills of someone her size far less effective. His giant fist soared toward her again and Quinn dodged it, knowing there was only so much she could do against this tree of an opponent without resorting to methods that could endanger her career.
Then, she spotted it. The injector, a small black tube lying amongst the pile of white powder. Just as he came after her again, she quickly dodged him and took another shot at his head, enough to jar him silent for a moment as she grabbed the injector and stuck it in his shoulder.
But he still came for her. She’d used up the remaining sleep agent on the other thug.
Quinn defended herself as best she could as they fought and scuffled, slipping on the laundry soap. But the thug seemed to slow down, as if he was out of shape. She realized it was the sleep agent—not enough to flatten him, but enough to dull him. She took another shot at his face, realizing her knucks were gone as her bare fist smashed against his skull. He toppled to his knees.
Quinn spun around to search for Daria, who was huddled in the corner, her dark eyes wide with terror.
“Run!” she shouted at Daria.
Daria sprinted out the door and Quinn frantically began looking around.
The data. Always get the data.
Data was what the Protectorate’s clients paid for, what was expected, and what jackers must deliver if they wanted to keep their jobs. Failure to deliver data was the ultimate failure. Everybody knew that.
She searched frantically for the small storage device, unable to
find it, finding only her brass knucks. She began tossing aside clothes and socks, finally locating it beneath a couple of towels, near where the pale thug lay slumbering. She snatched it and stuffed it into her pocket, and ran for the door.
A strong hand stopped her, yanking her back from the open door, from her escape. He bear-hugged her again and she felt a bit of panic as his strong arms entrapped her. Quinn employed every countermove in her arsenal, knowing that all she had to do was free herself and run, because there was no way this huge, semi-drugged guy could catch up with her. Desperate, she bit his arm, sinking her teeth into his flesh like a rabid animal. It surprised him enough to loosen his grip on her and she fled for the door.
She cursed loudly as she felt herself pulled back yet again, this time by her jacket. She thrashed and yanked herself forward as hard as she could, desperate to get away and out that door and into the darkness. Then, suddenly, she was free of him. Quinn sprinted out and into the alley.
She spotted Daria ahead and caught up to her, and together they ran through the quiet alley, the clean brick still radiating heat from a broiling and cloudless day. Quinn prayed to anyone who would listen that no more thugs awaited them, and that the jacker police weren’t hiding around the corner, ready to accost them with weapons drawn. Even the most elite mindjacker knew that encountering a cop from EDPD’s Division of Mind Invasion almost always guaranteed at least a decade in prison. They weren’t like other cops. They were specially trained… and once they got a jacker in their sights, they would stop at nothing to make an arrest.
They ran, Daria’s breathing rapid and desperate, until they reached the end of the alley. Quinn peeked beyond it, her hand on her energy weapon. It was clear.
They hurried away, snaking through the Uptown alleys as quickly as they could until they reached the clean, quiet Uptown subway station, its fully functional AC offering up the first relief Quinn let herself feel. They waited for the train, fewer and farther between at that hour, Quinn’s right hand still on her weapon as she kept nervous eyes on anyone and everyone who entered. Finally, the train came, and they got on and headed south. To Downtown.
Daria had her hood on, but Quinn could see that her face was swollen, streaked with dried tears, and locked in a grimace as she held her head, blood dampening the fabric of her hoodie. Quinn grabbed her other hand. It was shaking.
“It’s okay. We’re safe. We’ll get you to the clinic for treatment.”
Daria didn’t respond, but she seemed to understand, and her rapid shallow breaths slowed down. But her shaking remained.
They’d had their challenging jobs, unexpected obstacles, and setbacks, even a close call or two with the cops. But they’d never experienced anything like this. And Quinn still had no idea what happened, other than Clive McCloskey possibly having some kind of notification system they hadn’t found. It happened from time to time… but that was what proximity alerts were for. They hadn’t gotten one.
Quinn quickly took stock of their situation. Despite the terrible turn of events, they’d gotten what they came for, they escaped without the target awakening or the cops intervening, and they were safe and heading home. The farther they got from the job site, the more their chances of being detained went down.
She felt around for her equipment, stowed in her pockets. She could tell that her mind reader had gotten damaged during the brawl. That wasn’t the end of the world, especially now, when she was on the brink of being able to easily afford a new one. Especially since they’d gotten out with the data in hand and intact. That was what mattered.
Quinn patted her jacket just to reassure herself. However, she didn’t feel the storage device. She felt… nothing. When she looked down, part of her jacket pocket was missing. It was how she’d broken free from her attacker in that final moment. She checked everything, every pocket and cranny.
The data was gone.
Chapter 10
Quinn strolled through the streets on another sweltering summer day. When she turned the corner, she found that her street was blocked off. The police had placed yellow tape everywhere, and several police vehicles lined the street, their lights flashing brightly. She headed toward the incident, refusing to look at whatever the carnage was this time, hoping to quickly bypass it and get home. But when she approached, the police tape blocked access to the sidewalk, too.
“Street’s closed,” said a cop, looking down at her through mirrored sunglasses, his dark face coated in sweat.
“But I live here,” Quinn said, trying not to sound rude, knowing even at her age that pissing off the cops wasn’t a wise idea when you were a Downtownie.
“Where?”
Quinn pointed. “The white concrete building with the pink rocks out front.”
The cop eyed her. “You live there with your parents?”
“No, I live alone.” She couldn’t help that wiseass comment. She was twelve, for fuck’s sake. Who else would she live with? The cop crossed his arms and gave her a look. “I live with my dad. Joe Hartley. Apartment 302.”
“I’ll walk you there.”
Quinn followed the police officer, not knowing if he was escorting her because he didn’t believe her, or because he was concerned for her safety.
“What happened?” she asked, not entirely wanting the answer.
“Shooting.”
“Good guy or bad guy?”
The cop glanced down at her. “Does it matter?”
“Yeah. We don’t need more bad people down here, officer.”
When they arrived, the officer let her go inside. But when she climbed up to the third floor and opened the door, she saw the thing she hated to see most. Her dad, sitting in his recliner, a bottle of whiskey in his hand and his eyes half-shut like he’d been working that bottle for some time.
“Where the hell have you been?” he growled at her.
“I was at computer class,” she said.
“Computer class,” he mumbled, rolling his eyes.
“Dad, the cops are everywhere outside. There’s been a shooting.”
“What the fuck else is new?” he said, taking a sip of his bottle again.
“Aren’t you supposed to be at work?”
“Off today.”
“You said that the last two days! Why are you lying to me?”
Her dad slammed down the bottle and stood up, advancing toward her. “When I work or don’t work is none of your fucken business,” he said, his breath reeking of alcohol. “I’m the fucken parent around here…”
“Then act like one.”
There was fury in his face when he went to grab her. She turned away and he ended up grabbing her hair and yanking on it. Quinn screamed and swatted at him, and before he could do anything else, she bolted out of the apartment, down the stairs, and out the door.
Outside, she ignored the hubbub on her street and ran past it all, past the cop who’d escorted her, and into the alley. She ran and ran until she reached another concrete apartment building with cracks in it, barreling in and up the oven-hot stairwell until she found Apartment 457. She knocked, quickly wiping the tears away.
The door opened, and a tired-looking woman answered. She took one look at Quinn’s face and said, “You alright?”
Quinn nodded.
“Dar!” yelled her mother.
Daria appeared from her bedroom, her dark hair in braids. “Quinn! What’s wrong? Is it your dad?”
Quinn nodded. Daria looked at her mother. “Can Quinn stay the night again? She can sleep in my bed.”
Her mother nodded. Daria put her arm around Quinn’s shoulder. “Do you want TV or ice cream?”
“I don’t have any money.”
“Me neither. How about TV?”
Quinn sat in the waiting room of the Southgate Emergency Clinic, where Daria was being treated for her injuries. Quinn’s face throbbed, her head pounded, and the rest of her felt like she’d been run over by a truck. But she refused any treatment, even when the intake nurse looked at her like she
was crazy.
She couldn’t afford treatment, even with insurance. Especially when she’d paid to get Daria immediate treatment, which meant she wouldn’t make rent.
Quinn looked around at the late-night clinic crowd. It was the Downtown dregs: druggies and drunks, injured or sick or seeing things that weren’t there due to abusing their poison of choice. Battered spouses—male and female—after too many hours at the bar and yet another argument that turned heated. Street people, trying to blend in, hoping no one would notice that they didn’t need treatment and were simply looking to escape the heat. And others who couldn’t afford the kind of treatment that required money or good insurance, so they were stuck waiting for the city-appointed doctor to treat them. Which could take all night.
Quinn tried to shove away all the bad thoughts about that night. Her busted mind reader device. The fact that she’d have to scramble to make rent. That she’d done the unforgivable and lost the data, which not only meant no paycheck, but a threat to her Tier One eligibility. And worst of all, memories of Daria’s screams as she was attacked by that piece-of-shit thug, the one that, looking back, Quinn probably should have fried with her energy weapon.
Daria couldn’t fight. Quinn had always urged her to learn, but Daria would start and then give up. Quinn had even offered to teach her everything she knew, everything she’d learned from Wyatt… and even from her dad on the days he wasn’t drunk or taking his shit moods out on her. But Daria could never stick with it, preferring to rely on “her wits.”
Her wits had always been enough. Until that night.
And Quinn still had no idea what the hell happened. Who were those two goons? Where did they come from? Why didn’t Daria get a proximity alert?
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