Mindjacker

by C. A. Hartman

  She didn’t want to go. She’d rather save her money for her exodus from El Diablo, and leave before the Protectorate decided she needed to be “dealt with.” But she quickly realized she didn’t have enough money to escape. She needed their help, and she would have to chance going down there.

  Quinn stood up and removed her wig and equipment from her damaged jacket. She grimaced as she began peeling her jacket off her damaged arm last, pulling up part of the scab from her injury, which began oozing again. She inched it off, beginning to sweat from the pain. Finally, she got the jacket off and threw it into the dumpster.

  She stared down at the jacket as it lay upon a heap of garbage that stunk like hell. Her whole life had gone into the dumpster. That’s what happened to people like her. Unless they were lucky or their family managed to rise up like Noah’s had, they found their way into the fetid dumpsters of life: poverty, addiction, prison, death.

  Or, in her case, banishment after foolishly attempting to do the impossible, instead of making the more sensible choice Daria had.

  Quinn checked her wound, gaping and ugly, advertising to the world that she’d been in a heap of trouble last night. Even on a quiet Friday morning, that wouldn’t do. She glanced in the dumpster again, noticing a pile of clothing that looked like it was in good condition.

  That was the true sign of a Midtowner, tossing perfectly good clothing into a dumpster instead of wearing it until it was threadbare like a Downtownie or donating it to the “needy” like Uptowners did.

  She rooted through the pile and found a t-shirt, which she tore up and used to wrap her wound. Then she discovered a denim jacket, plucking it from the pile. It had lots of pockets and the letters E.D., large and bright red, embroidered on the back. El Diablo. She put it on, loaded it with her belongings, and left.

  The taxi headed Downtown and Quinn remained slumped down, just in case. The air conditioning and the hum of the radio soothed her, enough to make her drowsy. When the driver grabbed his water container and took a swig, Quinn stared, reminded again of her thirst. She almost did the unthinkable and asked for a drink, but refused. He would never say yes. Asking for someone’s water was like asking for cash. You just didn’t do it, unless you were a street dweller and had nothing to lose.

  Then she realized… she was one step away from being a street dweller herself, with nothing much left to lose. But she still didn’t ask.

  The taxi stopped, and when Quinn glanced at the readout showing her fare, dread fell upon her. She didn’t have enough cash. She couldn’t use her card, either—they would trace it and come looking for her in the last place they would normally look. She always kept enough cash on her for an emergency taxi ride, but not one this long.

  Quinn let out a shaky breath, preparing herself to do what needed doing. She pulled out her cash and got out of the taxi, leaning over from the passenger side. He rolled down the window and she handed him the cash, the largest bill on top. Then she ran, as fast as she could, down a oneway street.

  Everything cried out at her. Her stiff body. Her wounds. Her desiccated throat. And her shame from having underpaid a hardworking taxi driver, a man who probably came from the same means she did. Behind her, she heard the shouts, the cursing and the nasty names. She deserved all of it.

  She ran for blocks, through alleys and this way and that. She lost the driver, who couldn’t leave his car and couldn’t drive fast enough in the glut of Coyote’s oneways and construction to catch her. When she finally stopped, lightheadedness hit her and the world spun. She kneeled on the dirty concrete until it passed.

  Finally, Quinn turned down an alley and found a nondescript door, entering a memorized code. Inside, the AC relieved her. She marched up the stairs, feeling dizzy again. At the top, she entered a room filled with couches, chairs, and tables, all clean and functional, the window blinds shut.

  Yolanda sat there in her pretty print dress, her dark hair in a nice updo, and her nails painted red. Her shrewd eyes landed on Quinn.

  Suddenly, anger rose in Quinn. At Yolanda’s primped appearance, and that self-important look at her face. At everything the Protectorate had put them through.

  And that anger was about to boil over.

  Chapter 40

  “You fucking, goddamn—” Quinn began, the beginning of a full-on tirade at the tip of her tongue. But her dry throat made it so the words were little more than a hoarse whisper. She cleared her throat, determined to say what needed saying, but something stopped her.

  Water. A bottle of it, covered in a sheen of frost from having rested in a well-chilled fridge, the lid already removed. Yolanda held it out for her.

  Quinn snatched the cold water bottle and gulped it down, the coolness coating her innards and then spreading to her limbs. The life came back to her and, for the moment, her rage faded to a simmer.

  “Where’s Jones?” Yolanda said curtly.

  “Midtown General,” Quinn said, her voice still gruff. She cleared her throat again. “Gut shot, with an energy weapon.”

  Yolanda’s expression shifted just slightly. “He’s covered?”

  Quinn scoffed. “If you can call it that. But yes, they have his insurance information. I’m sure his mom and mentally disabled brother can easily afford what the insurance company won’t cover when Jones dies after trying to save the data from the two ninja motherfuckers who stormed our job and tried to kill us!” Quinn realized she was shouting, her simmering anger skyrocketing to full boil and the fact that she needed the Protectorate’s help completely forgotten. “What the fuck, Yolanda? And don’t you goddamn dare tell me it was what we signed up for, even if it’s true, because I swear to fucking God—”

  “Calm down, Quinn—”

  “Don’t tell me to calm down!” Quinn cried, her eyes burning with tears she would never let fall. “We’ve broken ourselves for you, all with the hope of improving our lot in life. And all you’ve done is bury us deeper in our own graves!” Quinn heaved her mostly-empty bottle across the room. It slammed against the wall, spraying its remaining contents around before bouncing on the tile floor. “Jones is probably dead and now I’m compromised, which means we’ll get approximately nothing for our efforts! Someone sent those evil bastards, and they jacked me and then tried to kill us… and they could fight! I mean, really fight! And they had energy weapons and I have no idea what the fuck happened because I was under, but I know they didn’t show up on our proximity detector because Jones would never have let them get that close, which means they had some kind of blockers, and only our special ops guys have those blockers, which means that there’s some shit doing down and you people are putting us—”

  “Quinn!” Yolanda shouted, her eyes shooting angry darts. “Be quiet and listen!”

  Quinn stopped shouting. She’d never heard Yolanda raise her voice before.

  “It wasn’t your fault,” Yolanda said, her voice measured. “We are not blaming you, or Jones. You had no way of knowing those men were coming. Nobody did, including the organization.”

  Quinn stared at Yolanda, trying to process this new information, trying to understand. “Wha… what?”

  “We’ve been poring over the data for hours, ever since you sent it.” She paused, a flash of compassion in her eyes. “We didn’t intentionally send you to your deaths. You aren’t at fault, you won’t be cut, and we will do what we can to help Jones. And his family,” she added.

  Quinn blinked a couple times, still not believing what she was hearing. “Who were they?”

  “We’re still combing through the data and trying to put it all together. But I saw what little they’d stolen from your mind, and that’s when I called you. We aren’t sure yet, but we think the men might be Black Jays.”

  “What the hell are Black Jays?”

  Yolanda let out a sigh and sat down again. Quinn did the same. “The Black Jays appear to be an organized group of mind thieves. We’ve had problems with a couple of botched jobs, jobs run by some of our best and most experienced.
When we examined the data we managed to get, we detected signs of them. However, their mind training is better than most, so we had little to go on. We’ve had our special ops agents on it, but we hadn’t gotten much useful information. Until today.”

  Then Quinn remembered. Linden’s mind, the mention of J’s. They hadn’t meant “J,” an abbreviation for something else, they’d meant “jay.” As in jaybird. The nasty black variety that stole food, shelter, and eggs from other birds.

  “What did you find?” Quinn asked.

  “We don’t have the full picture yet, but the Black Jays are far more dangerous than we suspected, and skilled enough to have flown under our radar for some time. We believe that by attempting to invade your mind, they were hoping to gain access to Protectorate secrets, putting all our operations and agents at great risk.”

  Quinn nodded absently, still unable to process it all. Then the image of Borelli’s dead body lying on the asphalt returned. She shuddered. “I saw Borelli. I saw what happened to him.”

  Yolanda nodded, her expression grave. “We saw that as well, from the data you retrieved from Mr. Linden. Which means that Linden witnessed Borelli’s dead body, if not the murder itself.”

  “Jones said Borelli was murdered right after we jacked him. It had to be these Black Jays, right?”

  “We don’t know yet. It could have been Linden.”

  Quinn shook her head, baffled. Then she remembered Noah. Spotting her, recognizing her. Yolanda hadn’t mentioned the police.

  “I assume you’ve been monitoring police activity…” Quinn said, watching Yolanda carefully.

  Yolanda nodded, her expression unchanged. “A neighbor of the Lindens heard a ruckus and called the police. According to our data, you narrowly missed them. We still aren’t clear why they sent a jacker unit, unless the caller mentioned the Lindens…”

  Quinn hesitated. No report from the police? How was that possible?

  “But they also showed up at Voila that night,” Quinn said. “How are they involved?”

  “We should have more information by tomorrow.”

  Quinn still felt thirsty, and she went to the fridge and pulled out another water bottle, taking several more gulps.

  Yolanda stood. “In the meantime, I don’t want you going home. It’s too dangerous. Stay here until we finish analyzing the data, and we’ll go from there. You’ll have everything you need here.”

  “And Jones?”

  Yolanda pressed her lips together. “We’ll do what we can.” She paused. “He wasn’t our most skilled tech, but from what I’ve heard, that boy could fight like a dog when it mattered.”

  Quinn nodded, feeling a stab to her gut at Yolanda speaking about Jones in the past tense. “It’s true. He’s the only reason I’m not lying in Linden’s bedroom with my brains smeared on the white rug.”

  After Yolanda left, Quinn showered, cleaned and bandaged her arm, and ate one of the protein bars they’d stashed there. She had little appetite and continued drinking all the water she could gorge on, until she thought she would burst. Finally, her pain quieted down for the time being, Quinn lay on the couch and closed her eyes.

  But she couldn’t sleep. She couldn’t get two things off her mind.

  One was Jones. She wouldn’t be alive if it weren’t for him. The Protectorate would have nothing on the Black Jays if it weren’t for him. Quinn was tempted to call the hospital, but she held back. Too risky, for everyone involved.

  The other was Noah. Yolanda seemed to have no concerns regarding the jacker police. Which meant Noah hadn’t reported encountering her and Jones, or any mindjacker. He’d let them go.

  And that made no sense at all.

  Chapter 41

  At the sound of loud footsteps, Quinn sat straight up suddenly and reached for her weapon in her righthand pocket.

  “Quinn, it’s just me.”

  Her panic began to fade as she recognized Yolanda, in a different printed dress that day. The terse, businesslike voice, once an irritation to her, almost sounded soothing now.

  She was at the safe house, on the couch. Yolanda sat down in one of the chairs.

  “What time is it?” Quinn asked, noticing that it was dark out.

  “Just after eight.”

  She’d slept through the day. “Where’s Jones?”

  “No report on Jones yet.”

  “Why not?” Quinn said, her question sounding more like a demand.

  “We’ve been keeping tabs on him. He was in surgery earlier today.”

  “That was hours ago.”

  “We’ve had to be cautious.” She paused. “We’ve ensured he receives the best care, but I won’t lie to you, Quinn. A gut shot is no joke. If there was too much damage to his vital organs, he won’t live.”

  Dread fell over Quinn. His family must be worried sick, his mother knowing something was wrong, his brother sensing it and acting out. Jeffrey hated when Jones was gone too long. “His family—”

  “We’ve covered for him. His family is okay for now.”

  Quinn nodded and tried to focus on the positive. Surgery meant Jones had a chance. That was good.

  Yet… why hadn’t the cops hunted down Jones at the hospital? All it would have taken was the flash of a badge and the right permissions, especially given that Noah’s mother worked at Midtown General and could probably give him all the access he needed.

  It made no sense.

  “We’ve had analysts sorting through that data all day,” Yolanda said, interrupting Quinn’s thoughts. “I’ve finally got some answers. The men in black were definitely Black Jays.”

  “Do we know anything about them?”

  “Only that they wear black, they have a black bird tattoo on their wrists, and are highly trained in both combat and mind invasion technology…”

  “So basically us, without the code.”

  “Yes. We have strong reason to believe they were involved in those botched jobs I mentioned, and that they’re responsible for the murders that have plagued the news recently. They’re going to be a big problem.”

  “What did they have going on with Linden and Borelli?”

  Yolanda sighed. “It seems Mr. Linden and Mr. Borelli really did have an adversarial relationship, at least initially. Linden wanted to buy Borelli out and transform his family restaurant into a sushi bar, and Borelli resisted. From what we could piece together, Linden had Borelli trapped thanks to Borelli’s significant debts, but he agreed to back off the takeover if Borelli was willing to work with him to help ‘the police’ target a couple of mindjackers.”

  “And by the police, you mean the Black Jays. But why?”

  “We’re still unclear on the details, but it appears that Linden struck a deal with the Jays, offering to help them corner two Protectorate agents in exchange for them tinkering with the memories of Linden’s biggest competitor. He knew the Protectorate would never do such a job. It seems Linden didn’t give Borelli this information, only promising Borelli that he could keep his restaurant and get a payout that would ease his debt load. Linden believed that a low-paying job with a client like Borelli would attract a less experienced jacker, one the Jays could easily target.”

  “So they could jack key intel about the Protectorate.”

  “Precisely. Invading a jacker’s mind means possibly learning the locations of our safe houses and headquarters, our access codes, information about our agents, you name it. Even with the mind invasion prevention training you all receive, their skill level suggests that with time they could obtain the information they seek.”

  Quinn nodded. “When they jacked me, I fought as hard as I could. But I could feel myself losing. Someone pulled me out.” It must have been Jones, but she had no way of knowing what really happened before she woke up. “I knew this was a bad job. I knew something wasn’t right.”

  “You were correct. We’re still missing the full picture, and we probably won’t get it for some time. However, one question that has nagged us is why the jacker pol
ice arrived at Voila that night. We can probably account for their arrival at Linden’s home, but that doesn’t explain their presence at Voila. One possibility is that we’re dealing with a rogue officer.”

  Quinn bit her lip. Could Noah be that rogue officer?

  Yolanda went on. “From what we could gather, the Jays had planned to capture you at Voila that night, but Borelli foiled the plan by showing up unexpectedly and alerting you to the fact that something was wrong. We still don’t know what happened to instigate Mr. Borelli’s demise, but we know Linden didn’t kill him. The murder scared Linden, and it was right after that particular memory that Linden called the police. It’s possible that he asked for their protection in exchange for delivering them two mindjackers, which is probably why they showed up at Linden’s home last night.”

  “Where’s Linden now?”

  Yolanda hesitated. “Linden’s dead, Quinn. His wife, too.”

  Quinn’s breath left her lungs. “The Jays killed them?”

  “We don’t know. The two Jays are dead, too. All four were killed by an energy weapon. The police found the weapon under the bed.”

  Another energy weapon? It must have belonged to the Jay she fought.

  Yolanda eyed Quinn. “I want the truth, Quinn. Did you use their weapon against them? Given the circumstances, I can understand why you would.”

  Quinn hesitated. She wanted to tell the truth, especially now. But part of her still didn’t trust Yolanda. Besides, she had nothing to do with harming the Lindens.

  “No,” she said. “We disabled the Jays, but everyone was still alive when we left.”

  Yolanda watched her for a moment, as if deciding whether to believe her. Then she nodded.

  “So who killed them, and when?” Quinn said.

  “Good question.”

  Quinn shook her head, baffled. Then she had another terrible thought. “What about the kids? The three kids?”