The Terrorist (Lens Book 3)

by J B Cantwell

  But no, I thought. I didn’t feel scared. Not yet. I chalked it up to the drugs from the phasing still coursing through my system. This made everything easier. The lie I was walking into would suit a flippant attitude.

  “Good evening, Miss,” the man at the door said. His eyes were wide.

  Harold Cutchins

  Designation: Green

  “Hello.”

  I walked past him as if I knew where I was going. It was just a simple lobby, though, sleek and modern with a bank of elevators straight ahead.

  Harold quickly moved in front of me and guided me toward the last elevator in the row, the only one that said PH on the call button.

  Penthouse.

  “Allow me,” he said, and he pressed the button.

  Immediately, the doors opened, and he held out his arm indicating that I should enter.

  My heart was starting to beat a little faster, but a moment later he was gone, and I found myself alone in the elevator. I looked at the panel. There were no buttons to push, just a simple scanner. I bent down slightly, and automatically the device read my face, my retina. The elevator moved, and I got the impression that it was lightning fast. It was only moments until we were at the top, and the doors opened before me.

  I stepped inside.

  “Good evening, Miss Page,” a voice said.

  I started, staring around, but then I realized it was an AI system talking to me, not a real person. No response necessary.

  I took a few steps further into the apartment, and immediately a bank of low lights faded on, not too bright, not too dark. My lens told me it was nearly eleven o’clock at night.

  Before, I had felt angry and arrogant, but now, in this place, I felt a sort of wonder. I bypassed all of the many luxuries the apartment held and walked straight to the floor to ceiling windows. I stared out at the city, wondering if anyone was staring back at me.

  I bet there is.

  I was reminded of the video I’d seen, seemingly years and years ago. It was a recruitment video intended to attract street rats like me to join the Service.

  She had been rich, had lived in an apartment not unlike this one. I turned and took it all in.

  Everywhere was luxury, and yet the space was spare. A duo of couches with squared edges bordered a gas fireplace. I walked over to it, and immediately the rocks within it alighted.

  I frowned.

  So odd.

  The rest of the living room was nearly empty but for a bright red chaise set next to the window. I imagined reclining upon it, exhausted from a day of shopping, drinking a glass of champagne, just as the woman in the video had done.

  But that wasn’t real, I reminded myself. That woman had been an actress.

  Still, she certainly did look the part.

  I turned away from the chaise and took in the huge kitchen, which was set against the far wall, away from the lounge. As I approached it, the lights over the countertop came on. I wasn’t sure who might use this much countertop, perhaps a personal chef, but I suddenly realized that the refrigerator was probably full, and I was starving.

  I ran my hand over the silver encasement of the fridge and opened it.

  A chicken, whole and roasted, on a platter dominated the fridge. I shook my head.

  “Chambers,” I said to no one.

  I reached in and took out the chicken, but as I turned to put it onto the counter, I was struck with a memory so hard I nearly dropped the entire plate.

  It had only been, what, a year? A year ago Alex and I had been in Paul’s house in Canada, looking through his refrigerator, searching his kitchen. And a chicken was what we’d found.

  I thought about Alex, about how he was strapped down in a bed somewhere. About how he may be dying right this very instant. But that was the thing about the Service, about everyone, really; the whole thing might’ve been fake. He could easily be up and well at this very moment, and I wouldn’t know. How could I?

  I opened a couple of drawers until I found a fork and knife, but I quickly determined that the best way to get into the chicken was to simply use my hands.

  I guess I really did need this woman’s, Janeen’s, training. But for the moment, I satisfied my hunger and didn’t think anything about the method by which the flesh made it to my mouth.

  I found a towel to the side of the sink and used it to clean my greasy fingers. Then, I had a glorious idea and went for the freezer.

  I wasn’t disappointed. Among a few instant dinners was a small tub of vanilla ice cream. I retrieved a spoon from the drawer and popped the lid off the carton, sliding the spoon through the cream and taking my first taste.

  An explosion of pleasure erupted on my tongue. It was this taste, more than anything else, that told me I was in the presence of total luxury. A whole chicken and all the ice cream I could eat. I couldn’t ask for much more.

  I carried the tub around the apartment with me as I explored. Despite its massive size, the apartment only had two bedrooms. I supposed all of the other spaces were used for some sort of entertainment. Did rich people entertain a lot? They sure had the room to in a place like this. I wondered if I would be forced to throw parties. Though, now that I thought of it, that seemed rather dangerous. Too many questions.

  I walked into the bedroom, and my jaw dropped.

  The bed was enormous and was piled high with decorative, silken pillows.

  I put down the ice cream and approached it, picking up one of the pillows and rubbing the fabric along my cheek. Then I threw it onto the floor and dove into the bed, kicking and tossing until all of the pillows were on the floor.

  I felt like a little kid on Christmas morning, Santa having brought me everything my heart desired on his magical sleigh.

  I rolled over on one side and saw two doors. One to what seemed like a bathroom, and another I couldn’t place. I got up to investigate, and when I reached the door I realized what the space was; it was a dressing room, and it was larger than the whole of my apartment back home with Mom. In the center was a large, circular pedestal, presumably to stand upon while gazing at yourself in one of the many mirrors that lined the walls. I stood upon it and looked around. I didn’t look too bad. Not spectacular, but given the transformation I’d just completed, I thought I looked pretty good.

  I jumped down and went for one of the many closets, throwing the door open to find another, smaller dressing area. As soon as I’d opened the door, soft mood lighting rose up and lit the space. All along one side was a wall of shoes, every kind of shoe I could think of. High heels, sandals, boots, all of them strange and impractical. I looked down at the flats I’d taken from Jacob in the limo and kicked them off my feet. I was just grabbing for one of the flashier pairs of stilettos when I turned to see the other side of the room.

  Gowns. Row after row of impeccable gowns lined the other wall. I remembered what it was like to walk in front of a clothing store, to try on their wares digitally, out in the street. I had never felt one, though, had only ever seen the computer generated version of myself in one of the beautiful ensembles.

  And there, to the side of the row of dresses, a large cabinet stood ajar.

  Shoes? Jewelry?

  I walked to it with anticipation and opened it wide.

  No. Not jewelry.

  Guns.

  It was like being punched in the stomach, a reminder of what I was doing here. I wasn’t presented with this luxury so that I could live the rest of my life out as a rich socialite. I was here to complete a mission, one I didn’t even know about yet.

  I picked up one of the guns and inspected it, a pistol with a silencer on the barrel. I held it up, walking into the large dressing room again. I took off the safety and aimed the gun at one of the mirrors, one of the many perfect reflections of the new me.

  I fired.

  The mirror across from me exploded, glass littering the floor. I nearly walked toward it in my bare feet, but then I realized the danger.

  I went back into the bedroom and fetched
a pair of fluffy slippers on the side of the bed. Then I walked back into the dressing room and inspected the door behind the glass. The bullet had gone all the way through the wood and lodged itself in the far wall of yet another dressing area. I approached it and dug the bullet out of the wood.

  This was what it was all about. Me and a gun. Just that. No Janeen. No Chambers. No Alex.

  I was still so angry, though, that I didn’t feel lonely. I left the dressing room and walked back to the kitchen, my ice cream forgotten on the dresser back in the bedroom.

  No matter. Someone would clean it.

  I assumed this, guessed that menial jobs like cleaning would be taken care of by someone else.

  I went to the other end of the apartment and opened a large, glass door that led to the enormous balcony. As I stepped out onto the concrete, little fires that lined the edges of the walls lit themselves automatically. I carried the gun at my side and walked to the far edge, where I lifted it and took aim at a window below, darkened.

  “Pow.”

  I aimed at another window, this one lit.

  “Pow.”

  Then into the air above.

  “Pow.”

  I wondered what would happen to me if I actually made these shots. What would happen to me with my Platinum designation.

  Was I above the law?

  Then I saw something unusual, a telescope set up at the corner of the balcony. I stuffed the gun in the back of my pants and went to take a look.

  All around me the city was alive, breathing, pulsing. Down on the street, people walked. Up in the windows, people moved. Somewhere, people must have been asleep, but perhaps not so many. It seemed that near midnight was just as busy as anytime during the day. The only difference was that those awake and wandering around the city were the elite, whereas the streets in the morning were dominated by workers.

  I took a deep breath and released it, and I realized that I was tired. If I thought about it, I’d had a very long day. The immense dose of energy and anger I’d felt from the phasing had given way to exhaustion.

  I turned away from the telescope and made my way back to the bedroom. I wasn’t sure how to turn off the lights, so I just left everything on, grabbing one of the fluffy pillows from the floor and climbing into the bed.

  Not only was I tired, but dirty, too. I hadn’t taken a look in the bathroom yet, but I imagined that, in the morning, I would take a swim in the giant bathtub that was certain to be waiting for me.

  I sank into the bed, covering myself with the heavy, silken duvet. I tucked my head into one of the bed pillows to block out the light.

  But no matter how tired I was, sleep didn’t come. Only images flashed through my mind, all of them too vivid to let me sink into sleep.

  The view from beneath the kitchen sink in Jim’s apartment.

  The rope ladder that snaked down through the fire escapes back in Brooklyn.

  The view of Eric in the cell back at the burning plants.

  And Alex. Alex hooked up to those machines, his life hanging in the balance.

  I didn’t want to bring him pain, but I hoped they would give him a phasing. Just one. Just to save his life. Then, it would be up to him to escape. But escape or no, he would be alive and whole again.

  As I finally grew sleepy, I imagined what it felt like to be near him, to feel the heat that emanated from his skin. The feel of his lips on mine. The protection I felt whenever I was near him.

  And it was in this cradle of warmth and memory that sleep finally found me.

  Chapter Five

  I felt a tugging sensation on the covers of the bed. Suddenly, the blanket was wrested from my body, leaving me exposed, chilled.

  “Get up, Audrey,” a woman’s voice said.

  The AI?

  No.

  “You should have been up hours ago.”

  Cold, wrinkled hands gripped onto my arm and pulled me halfway to the edge of the bed.

  My eyes flew open, and with my other hand I grabbed the gun from the back of my pants where I’d left it as I slept. I took aim, but what I saw surprised me enough to give me pause.

  “As if,” she said.

  She put her hands on her hips and raised her eyebrows.

  “Well, go on then. Shoot me. Let’s get it over with.”

  I lowered the gun, confused. And then I understood.

  Janeen.

  “Figured it out, have you?”

  “Yeah,” I said, groggy. “Sorry.”

  She held out one hand, clearly expecting the gun. I passed it over to her, and she moved to the dresser and placed it in the top drawer.

  “As far as I’m concerned,” she began as she walked back over to the bed, “you’re mine for the next few weeks. There will be no need for gun use during that time. Do you understand?”

  I nodded.

  “Excuse me?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I said, “Yes, Ma’am.”

  Now that my eyes were open, I got a good look at her. She was older than me, which I’d expected, about the age of my mother. Her blouse was a deep magenta, and her sleek, black skirt hit her legs below the knee. On her feet, simple black heels. Hair in a tight bun. Scowl in place.

  No nonsense

  I wondered how she walked in those shoes for what surely must’ve been hours every day.

  I had never worn heels before. Last night I’d been distracted by the chest of guns and left the closet of strange and fascinating footwear behind.

  “Up,” she commanded, bringing me out of my thoughts.

  I frowned, then did as I was told.

  “You’ve made quite a mess in the dressing room,” she scolded. “You should know better. This kind of behavior will not be tolerated.”

  For a brief moment, my anger returned.

  “Excuse me? Not be tolerated?”

  It only took a split second for the palm of her hand to meet the side of my face. Then she leaned over, putting both hands on the bed until she was hovering over me.

  “Don’t worry, honey,” she said softly. “I can only cause so much damage without it showing up on your pretty face. Though there are plenty of other … motivations I can use.”

  I stared up into her eyes, not scared exactly, but perhaps bested. For the moment.

  “Okay,” I said. “I’m getting up.”

  I leaned over, but she didn’t move, just kept her eyes on me. I looked up into those eyes and was surprised to find that they were a light shade of brown, nearly yellow. Like a snake.

  “Excuse me,” I said.

  She seemed to be waiting for this slight show of politeness, because she finally stood up, allowing me to sit up on the edge of the bed.

  I looked down at myself, wrinkled and sweaty.

  “Ugh,” she said. “You look disgusting.” She took a couple steps away. “Do get yourself in the shower. I’ll pick out some clothes for you to wear.”

  I stood up, then realized that I still had one of the fluffy slippers from the night before attached to one foot. I kicked it off and followed her.

  I wasn’t refreshed. While I’d had a mostly dreamless sleep, I felt, if it was possible, even more exhausted than I had the night before.

  But Janeen didn’t take those yellow eyes off me, and I made for the bathroom, feeling them burning into my back as I stepped through the door.

  The shower was as big as the whole bathroom back in Brooklyn. I turned on the tap and stripped down as I waited for the water to warm.

  “I’m quite sure that’s warm enough,” she said.

  I started. I hadn’t realized that she’d followed me into the bathroom, and I covered myself with my hands. Suddenly, I felt shy, invaded by her presence, whereas just a day before I’d been perfectly comfortable to throw off my hospital gown and stare at myself in the mirror Jacob held.

  Something was different with Janeen, though. Feeling her eyes scan my body was uncomfortable despite its new level of perfection. She wasn’t some schoolboy doctor, amused by my antics
.

  I stepped into the shower and grabbed for the fresh bar of soap that awaited me. The warm water felt so good on my new skin. I wished I had a few moments alone to enjoy the feeling.

  “You’ve got five minutes,” she said, turning.

  I watched her walk out of the bathroom, and I nearly fell to the floor once she was out of sight. I let myself sit down on the large bench that ran along one side of the shower and tried to catch my breath.

  So much. So much to learn, to deal with. And where had my anger gone? Had it evaporated along with my spirit?

  But then I got ahold of myself and stood back up. I lathered the soap onto a wash towel and scrubbed myself from head to foot. I hurried. I wouldn’t put it past her to shut off the water before I was rinsed.

  A few minutes later, and with great regret, I turned off the tap, grabbing one of many folded towels that rested, ready, on a small table outside the shower.

  And just in time.

  She waltzed back into the bathroom and unhooked a bathrobe from the wall. My hands automatically flew to my body, trying to hide myself.

  “Put this on,” she said, handing the bathrobe to me. “And there’s no use covering up. I will be well acquainted with your body within the hour. Here.” She passed me a towel for my hair.

  I stepped from the shower and placed the towel over my head. Just as the dressing room, the bathroom was filled with mirrors. Janeen turned up the lights to near blinding, then put her hands on my shoulders, turning me toward one of the full-length mirrors.

  “Take a look at yourself,” she said, pulling the towel from my hair and opening the bathrobe. “Are you ready for all of this?”

  I took a deep breath. For the first time, I was really looking at myself, the new me. Audrey.

  Was she ready?

  I let the bathrobe fall from my shoulders into a heap at my feet.

  Somewhere in there was me. I just hoped I’d be able to find her again once all of this was done.

  Janeen had swept up the glass well enough, and already had me dressed in a strange set of what she called “lingerie.” It was quite uncomfortable, and I wondered if rich women dressed like this all the time. She stood now with a long, black gown, waiting. She leaned down and held the dress open. I steadied myself with one hand on the dressing room wall, stepping into it one foot at a time. She pulled it up over my body and zipped it up from behind.