Wet Work

by Dayton Ward

  Despite all of this, Reiko continued to support her, though now she did so with an emptiness of soul—one she hoped might yet again be filled. She had come to realize that the only thing worse than losing Lona in an instant all those years ago was losing her to whatever it was that now guided her. There had to be some way to reach her, of that Reiko was certain, but it would take time to reach past these drives and compulsions that seemed on the verge of consuming her lover.

  Through her binoculars, she saw McFarland turn back toward the open doorway as though responding to a summons. With her left hand she reached for the laser microphone she had brought with her and aimed it for the sliding door’s tinted glass surface. Reiko thumbed the switch and the microphone emitted a laser beam that bounced off the glass, picking up the vibrations of sounds from inside the room beyond the door and transferring those sounds to the receiver in her left ear.

  “…word from HQ. Transfer teams are sixty seconds out,” said the man with the shoulder holster, whom Reiko watched with the binoculars. “Time to move again.”

  “Okay,” replied McFarland, his voice somewhat muffled as the microphone picked up his voice from outside the room. “I’m glad I didn’t unpack,” he said, shaking his head as he lit another cigarette.

  Motion to her left drew Reiko’s attention away from the house, and she turned to see sunlight glinting off the polished bodies of three black SUVs coming up the street.

  Reiko’s mind raced. Should the NTAC agents follow their usual pattern, the vehicles would arrive at the safe house, after which each of them would in turn enter and exit the home’s attached garage. This action would conceal McFarland’s transfer into one of the SUVs, followed by each of them speeding off in one of three different directions. Odds were strong, she knew, that the subject of her attention would disappear into the Seattle metropolis, possibly eluding her for good this time. It had taken her considerable effort to track him to this house. Could she be successful a second time—and without giving away her presence? Would Lona even be able to find him under such circumstances? Once NTAC realized their movements were being tracked, they would redouble their efforts to conceal McFarland, and may well take more aggressive action to thwart her own activities.

  There was another option, Reiko concluded, as she put down the laser microphone and binoculars, and reached for the Sig Sauer holstered beneath her left arm. Without Lona to consult, the decision to act was hers.

  She will understand, Reiko thought. Only on rare occasions had she ever engaged a target herself, in situations such as this, where there was a danger of losing a target. So far as Reiko was concerned, this was like those other cases. Of course, Lona always had taken issue in those instances, preferring Reiko to avoid risking herself.

  Steadying herself against the tree, she raised the Sig and took aim at McFarland. It would be a tricky shot from this distance, but not impossible, particularly as he was leaning against the deck railing as he finished his cigarette. Indeed, allowing him outside to smoke at all had been the first real mistake Reiko had observed by the NTAC agents protecting him. All it took was one mistake.

  “Hey!”

  The harsh shout shattered the neighborhood’s relative tranquility, causing Reiko to flinch at the same instant she caught movement in her peripheral vision. To her right, a man in a blue Windbreaker stepped from the alley between the safe house and the adjacent home. How had he seen her? Had he simply been paying attention to his surroundings and detected her movement among the trees? Whatever the reason, it did not matter as the man’s jaw went slack and comprehension dawned, and he reached for his sidearm.

  Without hesitation Reiko adjusted her aim and fired at the agent, hitting him in his left shoulder. The Sig’s report echoed from within the tree line, and Reiko heard a dog bark in protest from somewhere in the neighborhood. Ahead of her, McFarland whirled at the sound of the gunshot, his eyes widening in horror as he saw the agent fall.

  Damn it!

  Reiko bolted from her concealed position as McFarland ducked toward the open doorway. She fired on the run, the first shot missing him and burrowing into the wall beside the door. McFarland screamed in terror, throwing himself through the doorway and into the house. An instant later an arm emerged from the doorway wielding a pistol aiming in her direction and Reiko ducked as the first shots whizzed past her. She fired back in retaliation, backpedaling up the slope. Catching movement to her right, she saw two more agents coming around the far side of the house with weapons in hand.

  “Federal agents! Drop your weapon!”

  Firing to cover her retreat, Reiko reached the tree line and ducked behind the large oak, ejecting the Sig’s magazine and loading a replacement. Gunfire echoed off the walls of the neighboring homes and chunks of the tree’s bark splintered away as rounds dug into its trunk. Reiko scrambled back, keeping the oak between her and her pursuers. A figure darted between the trees to her left and she fired at it. Another agent lunged to hide behind a tree, and she heard shouts of warning from different directions.

  Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! How had she allowed this to spiral so far out of control?

  The back of her foot struck something behind her and Reiko lost her balance, tumbling clumsily to the uneven ground. She landed heavily, wincing in pain as something jabbed her side. With her free hand, she pushed herself up and started rolling to her feet when motion flashed through the trees to her left. Reiko saw a blue jacket and fired at it, hearing the cry of pain as the bullet struck soft flesh. Turning away from the fallen agent, she sprinted through the trees, her eyes scanning for an avenue of escape. Voices of alarm and warning called out behind her, accompanied by running footfalls crashing through the forest.

  Then fire ignited in her shoulder.

  Agony enveloped her as the bullet ripped into her body and Reiko gasped as the air was forced from her lungs and she collapsed face-first to the ground. The pain pushed outward from her damaged shoulder, her right arm hanging limp and useless. Panic began to set in as the sound of footsteps drew closer. From the corner of her eye, Reiko saw her pistol lying in the dirt and she tried to shift her body in an effort to reach it.

  “Don’t move!”

  Jerking her head to her left, she looked up at the muzzle of the Glock pistol, unwavering as it aimed directly at her face. The face of the agent wielding it was dark with determination and restrained anger. He wanted to shoot her; was waiting for her to provide the reason. Around her, Reiko heard the sounds of other agents approaching, some of them repeating the command to not move or calling out on radios for support.

  Fresh pain pierced her shoulder and she bit her lip to avoid crying out as her arms were pulled behind her. Then she felt the touch of cold steel as handcuffs closed around her wrists. There was no stopping the grunt that exploded from her lips as she was hauled to her feet, and it was all she could do to maintain consciousness.

  “What’s your name?” The voice was urgent and firm.

  “Who do you work for?”

  “How did you find us?”

  Reiko ignored the questions, instead concentrating on dealing with the pain in her tortured shoulder. Above it all, she felt ashamed at what she had allowed to happen. She had rushed to regain Lona’s favor, only to be betrayed by her own deep feelings for the woman she sincerely loved and who likely had been taken from her by forces she never would understand.

  I’m sorry, Lona.

  TWENTY-SIX

  LAS VEGAS, NEVADA

  AS THE HEADLIGHTS of Abigail’s red Toyota splashed across the front of the two-story prefabricated metal building, Alfred felt his stomach lurch with another twinge of apprehension. He turned to look at his companion behind the wheel, seeing the alabaster skin of her face bathed in a pale blue glow from the car’s dashboard instruments. Only when she offered an encouraging smile was he able to relax, if only a bit.

  “We’re here,” Abigail said, shifting the car into park and killing the engine.

  “How do you know you foun
d the right place?” he asked, pushing out the attempt at awkward small talk as he fiddled with the envelope in his hand. “This building looks the same as all of the others out here.”

  “A little disappointed?” she asked. “Maybe you were expecting some old warehouse down by the waterfront or something?” She shrugged. “Well, there’s no waterfront around here, but I could knock three times on the door and give the secret code if it’d make you feel better.”

  Alfred laughed, shaking his head. “That won’t be necessary. I’m just a little nervous is all.”

  “Oh, sweetie,” Abigail said, “I know you’re nervous, and I know you’re taking a huge risk for me…for all of us.” Leaning over in her seat, she kissed him.

  Alfred silently drank in the brief burst of pink that flared in his consciousness as their lips brushed. He and Abigail had been all but inseparable since the night at the diner, and he had relished every moment of their time together. Evenings were spent talking at length about everything and nothing. They explored each other as lovers, allowing him to delve deeper into her mind than he had with anyone since receiving his gift. Her presence was intoxicating, his feelings for her achieving an intensity greater than he had ever experienced—and in such a short time that he barely dared believe it. It was this trust and faith that gave him the courage to help her, and her friends.

  While he still was uncomfortable with stealing from anyone, he eventually justified the notion by telling himself he was acting as a sort of twenty-first-century Robin Hood, taking from the well-off and overindulged in order to help those in need. That had helped him to make this journey with Abigail. But now that they were here, he felt his conscience calling into question his actions, those he already had perpetrated as well as what he might do in the days to come. He did not want to leave the car, but instead to beg Abigail to drive away from this place and never look back.

  Holding up the envelope, he said, “This will cost me more than my job, Abigail. When people find out—and they will—I’ll go to jail.”

  “Alfred,” she said, “no one is going to let you go to jail.” She indicated the building with a nod of her head. “The people in there are ready to protect us no matter what happens. That’s part of what this is all about. They’re ensuring that the 4400 are not forbidden from fulfilling our destiny by those who don’t understand or can’t understand.”

  “I want to believe that,” Alfred said.

  Abigail opened her car door, triggering the overhead dome light. “Then let’s believe,” she said. “Come on, let’s go.”

  Alfred nodded in agreement as he exited the car, returning the envelope to the inside pocket of his jacket. They walked toward the front entrance of the unremarkable building, which sported a waist-high band of beige, rough-hewn rock below its walls of blue metal siding. Abigail reached the glass door first and Alfred was surprised to see that it was unlocked, given that it and the adjacent window bore no signage or other indication of occupancy.

  Once inside, he saw a reception desk outfitted with a computer terminal, a telephone, and the expected array of accessories. Behind the desk, a picture window offered a view of what appeared to be a similarly equipped office space, which to Alfred seemed to lend a sense of legitimacy to whatever operation this might be. At the far end of the narrow room, light spilled from an open door leading to the back of the building.

  Abigail reached out to take his hand in hers, and once he touched her, his perception of the room brightened with swirling color. She led the way, striding past the rows of desks toward the open door with the confidence of someone familiar with her surroundings. As they drew closer to the rear of the room, Alfred heard the murmurings of muted conversation echoing through the doorway.

  They passed through the door and Alfred dropped her hand as he caught sight of a group of four men standing within an open warehouse area. Shipping crates of varying sizes were scattered in several assorted stacks around the room, with others lining the walls. Abigail’s and Alfred’s footsteps rang out against the concrete floor, and the men turned at their approach. One of them, a shorter man with receding red hair who to Alfred looked to be in his thirties, started walking their way. He was dressed in khaki cargo pants and a dark blue or black shirt, over which he wore a scuffed brown leather jacket, the ensemble giving him the appearance of—as Alfred might once have read in one of his pulp novels—a “man of intrigue.”

  Or, perhaps he’s just dangerous.

  “You must be Mr. Twenter,” the man said. “Abigail’s told us good things about you. I’m Darren Abbott.”

  Alfred extended his hand in greeting. “Please, call me Alfred.” They stood motionless before one another for several seconds before he realized from the look in Abbott’s eyes that the man had no intention of shaking hands. Clearing his throat, Alfred instead reached up to adjust his glasses, certain that Abbott’s choice was not one of discourtesy but rather because he wished to avoid having his thoughts read. It was a guess, of course, but it was enough to further unsettle Alfred.

  As his companions stepped closer, Abbott said, “Abigail also tells me that you’re considering joining our effort. I appreciate that.” He smiled for the first time. “As you could probably figure out when you walked in, we’re just getting started.”

  Nodding, Alfred asked, “Getting started doing what?” He had posed similar questions to Abigail, of course, but she always deferred, telling him that all would be made known to him when he finally met her friends.

  “Right now,” Abbott replied, “we’re focusing a lot of effort on gathering resources and networking among our fellow gifted returnees, something our friend Abigail has been very helpful with.”

  Abigail smiled at the compliment. “I’m just doing what I think is right. It’s as though everyone’s watching whatever we do, and we’re not welcome anywhere we go. I’m tired of living like that. A lot of us are.”

  “That’s why it’s time for us to work with each other and set common goals,” Abbott said, “as we find out more about ourselves and how we now fit into the world.”

  Frowning, Alfred felt sweat on his palms and wiped them on his pants. “Isn’t that the kind of thing The 4400 Center is supposed to be doing?”

  Abbott shrugged. “Jordan Collier is dead, and I’m not convinced that place was doing anything to improve our situation while he was alive. Besides, there are advantages to keeping this operation among ourselves, rather than build some massive public testament to our presence. That sort of thing just invites scrutiny and interference, from NTAC on down.”

  His confusion and apprehension growing with every word Abbott spoke, Alfred asked, “What do we have to hide? Don’t we want to build trust among people instead of just sneaking around?”

  “We will,” Abbott replied, “but we also have to shake off the shackles of our self-appointed masters, such as those at NTAC. Surely you know that they’ve been working actively to suppress the gifts we’ve been given?” He held up his right arm for emphasis. “They’re injecting us with drugs. I only found out about it after I’d received three doses. I still have no idea what ability I might have. They’ve taken it from me.” Lowering his arm, he stepped closer to Alfred. “We can’t allow that to continue, Alfred. We have to organize ourselves and our resources. That’s where people like you come in, Alfred.” He nodded to Abigail. “I’m told you’ve already made some preliminary inquiries on our behalf?”

  That’s my cue.

  “Um, yes,” Alfred said, reaching into his jacket and retrieving the white envelope. Seeing the wrinkles along its edges, no doubt inflicted by his nervous toying with it during the drive here, he tried to smooth them by rubbing it along his arm. He looked to Abigail, who nodded in encouragement, before he held up the envelope.

  “This is a list of names and safety-deposit box numbers from my bank. The boxes contain jewelry, rare coins, and other high-value collectibles. Some of the customers also use their boxes to store various amounts of cash.” He never claimed
to understand that practice. “All told, it’s probably worth a couple hundred thousand dollars.” It had taken him all night to review the list of deposit box renters, crossing off those names he felt did not deserve to fall victim to robbery, regardless of whatever cause Abbott was championing. He had made his views on this clear to Abigail, but felt that now was the time to restate his position. “I cannot stress enough the need for you to stick to this list. It’s bad enough they’ll eventually figure out I was behind this. I don’t want to hurt some old widow along the way.”

  Abigail said, “I told him it wouldn’t be a problem, and you’d find a way to work with whatever he could provide.”

  Nodding, Abbott said, “No problem at all. We’ll take care of everything, and I’m glad you feel you can trust us, Alfred.”

  Alfred, his uncertainty climbing with each passing moment, offered the envelope to Abbott, holding it in such a manner that his fingers extended along its underside. When Abbott moved to take it, his fingers brushed Alfred’s, the fleeting contact enough to give Alfred a connection to the other man’s mind. Harsh violet exploded in his vision and a chill coursed through his body. Acting on pure instinct, Alfred reached out with his other hand, latching on to Abbott’s bare wrist. He gasped as richer, darker colors flooded his mind even as Abbott shouted and struggled to free himself. Alfred ignored that, instead concentrating on the rush of imagery flashing before him, seeping through billowing clouds of purple and black. There was more here, much more, but then the colors faded to nothingness and Alfred felt himself shoved with brute force to the cold, concrete floor.

  “What the hell was that about?” Abbott growled, and Alfred looked up to see the other man eyeing him with menace as he massaged his wrist. One of Abbott’s companions approached and picked up the envelope from where it had fallen to the floor, while the other two men moved to pull Alfred to his feet, each of them holding one of his arms in a grip that told him he would not be making an easy exit.