by R S Penney
The woman sat in her chair, turned so that Jena saw her in profile. A frown had put creases in her brow. “Let me ask you something, Operative,” she began. “Are you under the impression that we're not doing all we can to find your missing Keeper?”
“No,” Jena said. “I'm not.”
The Captain leaned back in her chair with elbows sitting on the armrests and fingers steepled. When she spoke, her voice was calm and quiet. “Then why is it that you insist on micromanaging every aspect of this search?”
Jena crossed her arms, lifting her chin to fix a steely gaze on the woman. “Well, I don't know,” she said, shaking her head. “I suppose it could be my desire to be thorough, though that might be too straightforward an answer.”
Taborn grimaced.
Licking her lips, Jena bowed her head to the other woman. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “My apologies, Captain,” she said. “Your people are all good officers. I just feel responsible for this Keeper.”
“Why?”
Jena took a chair across from the other woman. Knowing that she'd have to choose her words with care made this conversation feel a lot like navigating a mine field. “The girl should never have been given this assignment,” she said. “Too young.”
“I can understand that,” Taborn replied. “But it doesn't answer my question. Do you know this Leana Lenai personally?”
“No.”
“Then why…”
Several possible responses came to mind, but Jena rejected them all before opening her mouth. There was no way to know if this woman was in Grecken Slade's pocket, and if she was, she might deliberately try to sabotage the rescue.
The only way to be sure that they made a genuine effort to find Lenai was for Jena to oversee every aspect of the process, but doing so was exhausting. “We don't leave our people behind, Captain.”
“We also don't put them in unnecessary danger,” Taborn said. “They don't call it Dead Space because there's virtually no traffic through this part of the galaxy; they call it Dead Space because coming here kills you. The entire sector is littered with abandoned Overseer outposts like the one we just saw. I have half a mind to turn the ship around and set a course for home.”
With her mouth agape, Jena blinked at the other woman. “You can't be serious,” she blurted out. “We've been to five systems thus far, and this is the first time we've encountered resistance.”
“Resistance that might kill us.”
You're going to have to tell her the truth.
“I don't trust Grecken Slade,” Jena said softly.
Her mouth a thin line, Zai-Ella Taborn studied her with eyes that were cold and calculating. “Grecken Slade is one of the most respected Keepers of our time,” she began. “Why don't you trust him?”
“A feeling,” Jena said. “And the fact that nothing adds up.”
“What do you mean?”
“How did Denario Tarse get his hands on a symbiont?” she replied. “The Nassai in our care are well guarded. Why would he take it to Dead Space of all places? Why was Leana Lenai – a girl so green she's probably stopped eating in favour of photosynthesis – sent after him? Why not a more experienced Keeper?
“Why was Leana told to turn back when Denario entered Dead Space? Recovering that Nassai would be worth the risk. Why weren't other ships sent to assist her? And then there's the distress beacon's transmission. The data we received suggests that her shuttle went down over a world nearly identical to our own. Denario Tarse wouldn't have flown here unless he had a buyer. Someone was waiting to receive that symbiont.”
Zai-Ella Taborn was frowning into her lap, shaking her head as if she disapproved of what she had heard. “You make a solid case,” she said. “But my people aren't trained for investigation.”
“That's why I'm here,” Jena replied. “We don't have precise coordinates, but we do have a general idea of where the shuttle went down, and we can narrow down the search by focusing on star systems with the right characteristics. That leaves us with about two dozen systems. Let's check them and get to the bottom of this.”
The other woman looked up to fix her gaze on Jena, her expression unreadable. “Very well, Operative,” she said. “You've convinced me. For now.”
Then at least one thing worked out today.
Chapter 24
The small plane was lit mainly by the oval-shaped windows on either side of the cabin, bright sunlight spilling in over leather seats. The constant hum of the engines had faded to a soft buzzing in the back of Jack's mind, but he still felt as though he'd float like an astronaut if he jumped.
He made his way down the aisle toward the back of the plane, passing Patel on his left. The woman sat with laptop open, her eyes focused on the screen. Speaking to her would probably be unwise.
Carlson was in the seat behind her, leaning back with eyes closed, his black hair in a state of disarray. How the man could sleep at a time like this was something Jack would never fathom. But then, Carlson had survived life-threatening situations before.
Two of the TAC officers sat side by side over the wing, conversing softly with each other. One shot Jack a glare as he passed. Doubtful of the new Keeper? Jack really could not blame him.
He found Anna sitting in the window seat and staring out at the clear blue sky. She was the one person on this plane who looked as apprehensive as he did, but Jack figured it had nothing to do with impending danger.
He sat down next to her.
Anna clamped a hand over her mouth, shutting her eyes tight. She looked positively nauseous. “I have to admit I'm not used to this,” she whispered. “My stomach's been doing flip-flops for the last hour.”
Tilting his head back, Jack closed his eyes. He took a deep breath and then let it out slowly. “You only have to worry about turbulence,” he said. “I, on the other hand, have to worry about gunfire.”
Anna bit her lip, staring down into her lap. She brushed a lock of hair away from her face. “You're ready for this, Jack,” she promised him. “You know what you need to do. Confidence will come in time.”
“I'm not so sure.”
Jack shut his eyes and turned his face away from her. The touch of leather on his cheek felt sticky. “You're the experienced one here,” he went on. “I don't mind dying, but if I screw this up, Pennfield wins.”
She laid a hand on his arm.
When he turned, he found her watching him with a solemn expression, blinking as she chose her words. “Every Keeper fears the consequences of failure,” she said. “I was much the same on my first mission.”
He decided not to press the issue any further. Every new recruit needed a pep talk before his first big assignment, but there came a point where you were only bellyaching. It wasn't gunfire that frightened him – Jack had discovered that he was all too willing to martyr himself – it was the possibility that he wouldn't be fast enough, wouldn't be strong enough. That Hutchinson might escape.
“It makes more sense to send you in,” Anna said, repeating the sentiments of just about everyone at the briefing this morning. “If you get into trouble, I can respond with greater speed than you could manage, and Pennfield's goons might know my face.”
Anna set her jaw, staring resolutely ahead at nothing at all. “I will make sure you get through this,” she said, nodding to herself. “That's a promise, Jack. I'll be right there with you the whole time.”
She sounded less than convinced. Perhaps, deep down inside, Anna secretly wished she were the one going undercover. Her rational mind understood the necessity of sending Jack in to look for Hutchinson, but she still didn't like the thought of putting him in danger. There were times when Anna reminded him of a mother lioness who saw just about everyone else in this world as one of her cubs.
Chewing on his lower lip, Jack closed his eyes. He nodded once in approval. “You have my complete confidence, An,” he said. “I know I'm safe so long as I've got you by my side.”
She beamed at him.
App
arently, that had been the right thing to say. A mother lioness indeed. When he was in tenth grade, he had listened to Megan Lowell wax poetic about how important it was for a woman to feel safe in the company of a man. Anna, it seemed, wanted men to feel safe in her company.
This should be interesting.
According to their intel – Jack still felt odd using that word – Hutchinson liked to frequent a bar down by the waterfront with several of the same men every night. Patel suspected he was really meeting with Pennfield's contacts. Either way, this was the best place to find him.
A wide black parking lot stretched on toward a box-like building with a big red sign that read “Billy's” over the door. Beyond that, the ground sloped downward to the rocky beach.
Jack stood in the lot dressed in blue jeans and an old flannel shirt that he had left untucked. He had avoided shaving to put a little stubble on his jaw, and the Blue Jays cap on his head would shade his eyes.
Slipping hands into his pockets, Jack started forward. He shook his head and let out a sigh. Well, now you're into it, he noted. Are you sure you wouldn't rather take Lauren's advice and mind your own business?
No one was waiting for him at the door.
Jack pulled it open to reveal a room that looked like it had once been used as a meat locker. Small metal tables were spaced out on the floor, and the lights hung upon the wall seemed unable to pierce the gloom.
A bar-counter along the wall to his left was home to a wiry little man with tanned skin and short silver hair. He gave Jack a withering glare the instant he stepped through the door. Clearly, strangers weren't welcome here.
“I'm right here with you, Jack,” Anna's voice said through the small ear-piece he wore. “We've got our eyes on you, and we'll be there to back you up at the very first sign of trouble.”
He couldn't reply, of course.
Three men at the nearest table looked up when he came in. Their leader, a big guy with a brush of short black hair, stood up. So this was the enforcer. Jack didn't know if he would have trouble just getting in here, but it seemed that luck wasn't with him tonight.
“I think you're in the wrong bar,” Mr. Big said as he paced around the side of his table. He sauntered up to Jack and stood there like a statue of Hercules. “There's a nice dance club just a few blocks up the road.”
Jack smiled, then lowered his eyes to the floor. “I'm looking for a close friend of mine,” he said, eyebrows climbing. “Goes by the name Hutchinson. You wouldn't have seen him, would you?”
Mr. Big stiffened.
Grinning from ear to ear, Jack looked up to study the man. He blinked a few times. “Oh come on now,” he pleaded. “We're all friends here, aren't we? I know my buddy Wes would like us to get along.”
Big shot a glance over his shoulder, frowning at the man behind the counter. His expression softened a moment later. “Grab a beer at the bar,” he said at last. “You and I can have a little chat.”
Jack strode across the room, trying to project confidence. Somehow he suspected that trying too hard would only make him look nervous. Damn it but he could feel their eyes on his back.
He hopped onto a barstool.
The bartender looked up with a frown on his face, squinting as though he wasn't sure what to make of Jack. “What'll you have?” he muttered. “Don't ask for any of that fancy European crap.”
“Beer?” Jack said. “Domestic?”
A moment later, the guy put a glass of fizzing lager down on the counter. Jack had no intention of drinking it – if these people really worked for Pennfield, it might well be poison – but he had to look the part.
Mr. Big came up on his right, standing at the bar next to Jack. He frowned down at the counter. “Now, we're gonna have a little chat,” he whispered, “about what you know about our friend Wesley.”
Through contact with the symbiont, Jack felt another man approach on his left. This one was tall and slender, kind of twitchy. Out of the corner of his eye, Jack saw a thin gray beard on his face. “A beer!” the guy shouted. So he was trying to make it seem as though he only wanted a drink.
“Sure thing, Tomas,” the bartender replied.
Jack glowered at the countertop, pulling the bill of his hat down over his eyes. “I know only what you know,” he murmured. “That you don't cross him if you want to live.”
“Why are you here?”
“Isn't it obvious?”
“No.”
Jack bit his lip, glancing over his shoulder. He squinted at the other man. “Wesley sent me to check up on Hutchinson,” he growled. “The guy's been a little paranoid since that business in Ottawa.”
Crossing his arms, Mr. Big frowned at the wall. He nodded to himself with a soft grunt. “Damn straight he is,” the man agreed. “Hutchinson should have just killed that kid and ran.”
Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Jack closed his eyes. He shook his head and muttered, “That would have been an even bigger spectacle. The boss wants to keep it all low-pro, you know?”
A grin broke out on Big's face, and he wheezed with laughter. “You ought to be a rapper, kid,” he said. “Pity you won't be able to.”
“Why's that?”
The man's face went red as his lips peeled back in a vicious snarl. Spit flew from his mouth. “Because no one knows about that business up in Ottawa,” he barked. “The only reason I know is 'cause I'm the one who took Hutchinson in.”
Jack whirled around to find three hundred pounds of pissed-off criminal baring his teeth and clenching his fists. “You really don't want to do this,” he warned the other man. “I'm stronger than I look.”
Mr. Big threw a punch.
Jack ducked and felt the blow pass within inches of his scalp. He drove both fists into the man's stomach like a pair of pistons. His opponent went flying back a few feet before landing on his ass.
Jack sensed motion behind him. His mind's eye perceived it almost as a series of transparent outlines. Tomas was reaching for a gun on his belt, trying to raise the weapon for a fast headshot.
Jack leaped.
He flew backward over the man's head, then landed on the floor behind him. Tomas spun around, raising the pistol.
Jack brought one hand up to strike the man's wrist and knock the gun askew. He slammed the palm of his other hand into the man's face. Tomas stumbled, blood dripping from his nostrils.
Spatial awareness flared up again, and Jack spun around to find a man with a thick black moustache raising a gun in both hands. The man squinted. Panic welled up and Jack reacted by instinct.
CRACK!
The air before him rippled, the image blurred and stretched as though something had refracted the light. Through the shimmering curtain, he saw a single bullet spiralling toward him, mere feet away.
He ducked.
Gritting his teeth, Jack squeezed his eyes shut. He felt sweat matting bangs to his forehead. “Well, this is new,” he said, trying to ignore the pain in his temples. “I think I could get used to it though.”
He let the bubble pop.
A bullet zipped over his head.
Running forward, Jack seized one of the wooden chairs. He flung it and watched it tumble through the air, striking Mr. Moustache in the face before he could reorient his aim. The other man fell backward.
Lifting his chin to stare down his nose at the fallen man, Jack stepped forward. “I hope we've learned something,” he said, eyebrows rising. “Boys shouldn't play with their daddy's guns.”
He felt more than saw three other men stand up from tables on the far side of the room. They each drew pistols, raising their guns to point at Jack. Apprehension from his Nassai told him that he couldn't outmaneuver all of them at once.
Biting his lower lip, Jack winced. “And I shouldn't pick a fight in a bar full of criminals,” he said. “Okay, boys, let's not do anything that we will regret in the morning.”
The front and back doors swung open, each releasing half a dozen agents in black tactical gear into the
room. Armed with assault rifles, they dropped to one knee to point weapons at the criminals.
One by one, each of the three men dropped to a crouch and set his gun down on the floor. Only then did Jack realize that his heart was pounding so hard it might just burst right out of his chest. “None of us should underestimate Anna,” he said.
As if drawn by the sound of her name, she stepped through the front door, dressed in black pants and body armour. For some reason, she hadn't bothered with a helmet. She likely didn't need one.
Anna shut her eyes and nodded to him. “You did very well,” she said, striding into the room. “Now, let's round up these low-lives and escort them all to one of our nice, cozy detention cells.”
“How…” one man in the back asked. “How do you move like that?”
Jack grinned, sheepishly bowing his head. “What can I say?” he muttered with a shrug of his shoulders. “Fabulous secret powers were revealed to me the day I held aloft my magic sword and said, 'By the Power of Grayskull!' ”
Five minutes later, half a dozen men were on their way to jail.
The battering ram slammed into a door that led to the basement of a small house, forcing it right off its hinges. Inside, Harry saw a small room with linoleum floor tiles and white plastered walls.
Two women in TAC gear leaped through before him, both dropping to their knees and lifting assault rifles. “FREEZE!” one bellowed. “Do not move! I will fire; so you just stay where you are.”
Harry stepped inside.
He found David Hutchinson sitting on an old brown sofa with a can of beer raised halfway to his mouth. The man was bone white, sweat glistening on his forehead. “Um…hello, Detective Carlson.”
Harry narrowed his eyes. “So, here you are,” he said, shaking his head. “You'd think Pennfield would spring for a five-star hotel after everything you've done.”
Hutchinson closed his eyes and let his head hang. The sheen on his brow seemed to thicken. Or maybe it was just the light. “Look, Harry, it wasn't personal,” he said. “I like you fine, but-”
Harry bared his teeth, his face suddenly on fire. He felt as though he might explode from the rage boiling inside him. “Do not give me your excuses!” he growled. “We were never friends, Dave, but I never thought you'd try to bash my skull in.”
