Wet Work

by Dayton Ward

  Reiko lay on her back against the van’s left bulkhead, her entire body awash in pain, her pulse pounding in her ears and her breaths coming in deep, ragged gasps. To her right, the guard lay unmoving near the rear doors, a line of blood streaming from her head across the bulkhead’s polished metal surface.

  “Hello?” she called out to her, though Reiko could tell by the unusual tilt to her neck that the other woman likely was dead. The woman had treated her with decency and humanity, simply doing her job and taking no apparent pleasure in lording her authority over those in her charge. For that reason alone, Reiko felt a momentary pang of remorse.

  Something smacked against the transport van’s rear door, and Reiko jerked her head in that direction an instant before white-hot light overloaded her vision and a thunderous hammer blow clapped her ears. She squeezed her eyes closed and turned her head as the concussion rocked the wrecked transport yet again. Her ears rang in the wake of the blast as the doors fell away from their hinges. Sunlight pierced the compartment’s shadowy interior, illuminating the haze of smoke and dust. Through all of that, Reiko was able to make out a silhouette creeping through the open doorway. Even through unfocused eyes she recognized the figure that moved quickly and with practiced grace into the compartment.

  “Lona?” Reiko called out, her voice a hoarse croak that she barely could hear through the dull ringing in her ears.

  Stepping over the guard’s motionless body, Lona maneuvered deeper into the van until she stood over Reiko. Their eyes met, yet Lona did not smile, offered no expression of relief upon seeing her. Instead she stood all but motionless, her features unreadable in the filtered sunlight streaming in through the open door. Then, Reiko saw a single tear streaming down her lover’s left cheek.

  No.

  Realization dawned and Reiko gasped, feeling tears stinging her own eyes. There was no mistaking the conflict raging within her lover’s mind, the decision she already had weighed and chosen. Lona had to know that Reiko, if left to the machinations of her captors, eventually would break under the stresses of interrogation. From a pure, tactical standpoint, there could be only one option. Reiko, free or in custody, remained a liability now that her identity was known.

  Lona knelt beside her, reaching out with one gloved hand to caress Reiko’s cheek, tears now flowing freely down her face. Whatever it was that now guided her, it obviously allowed no quarter for anything that did not benefit the mission she pursued or the goals of those who tasked her. Reiko supposed she should at least be thankful that Lona only seemed to have arrived at her choice after much painful contemplation, and she willed herself to say nothing as Lona bent forward and kissed her.

  Then Reiko saw sunlight reflect off the knife’s polished blade even as she heard the words on Lona’s lips.

  “I’m sorry.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  NTAC

  SEATTLE, WASHINGTON

  SKOURIS WATCHED THROUGH the observation port as Alfred Twenter sat at the table in the interview room, talking in hushed tones with Dr. Max Hudson. For privacy’s sake, the audio feeds from the room had been turned off while they discussed Twenter’s 4400 ability, the effect on the man’s life since his return, and what his gifts might mean for his future. Skouris had neither official need nor personal desire to eavesdrop on the conversation. Twenter had been more than cooperative since his arrival, and this private meeting was one small gesture of gratitude she felt the government could live with.

  Behind her, she heard the door open and glanced over her shoulder to see Baldwin enter the room before crossing to stand next to her. Gazing through the window, he released a tired sigh.

  “A 4400 who can read minds,” he said. “Just another day at the office, right?” He offered a tired laugh at his own weak joke. “Well, he certainly seems to know enough about Callahan. A lot of what he gave us checks with what little Reiko Vandeberg’s been nice enough to give us. If even half of what he says he read from her mind is right, we’ve got big problems.” Then he frowned, as though just remembering something. “What about the visions Maia’s been having? Does any of that tie to this?”

  “Oh, I think he’s hitting pretty close to the mark,” Skouris replied, folding her arms across her chest. During the previous evening, Maia had come to her with new stories of what she had seen since the last time she had talked about her visions. Recalling the vague, fleeting images her adopted daughter had described to her, she added, “Some of the things she’s been telling me are definitely starting to make sense.”

  Baldwin said, “Yeah, well, let’s keep that to ourselves for the time being. If Jarvis finds out Maia’s having visions again, she’ll want her brought in.”

  Skouris shook her head. “Not if I can help it.” Remembering one thing Maia had said in particular, she added, “Maia did say something about the end being near and that somehow balance will be restored. Maybe this is close to being over.”

  “Yeah, but over how?” Baldwin asked. “McFarland getting killed, along with how many others?”

  Before Skouris could reply, the door opened again and they turned to see Nicholas McFarland enter the room. The CIA officer looked tired, she decided. His suit was rumpled, his hair looked to have been combed with his fingers, and he needed a shave. Skouris also could smell the odor of cigarette smoke in his clothes and hair.

  “Director McFarland,” Baldwin said by way of greeting. “I take it you’ve seen the video from the interviews?”

  McFarland nodded. “To be honest, I still don’t know that I believe all this nonsense that these 4400 have super powers, or whatever.” He pointed toward the window. “But, if it is true, that man’s a walking, talking security risk. I shudder to think what he might know from having read Callahan’s mind.”

  “He seems able to speak primarily to her state of mind,” Skouris replied. “I’m not sure how much actual information he may have learned about her specific activities.”

  “So he says,” countered the CIA director. “He might say anything to keep us from looking too deeply into what he knows.”

  “If you mean what he knows about Callahan’s former employment,” Baldwin said, and Skouris heard the slight edge in his voice as he stressed that last word, “I don’t think that’s our biggest concern right now. His coming here could be just what we’re missing. If we can get him to make sense out of whatever else he pulled from her mind, we might be able to get ahead of her.”

  Weighing this, McFarland finally nodded. “Fair enough, but it’s something that needs to be revisited once this is resolved.”

  Assuming Callahan doesn’t find you first. Skouris felt only a small pang of guilt as the errant thought wafted through her mind.

  “What about that stuff he was saying about her maintaining balance?” McFarland asked. “Does that make any sense to you?”

  Abruptly, Baldwin said, “She’s a watchdog.”

  “What?” McFarland’s brow knit in confusion, and Skouris had to admit that she was not sure what her partner might mean.

  “A watchdog,” Baldwin repeated. “She’s like one of those groups who go after TV networks for putting on too many violent shows, or who keep tabs on politicians to make sure they campaign fairly, or hold to the promises they make in order to get elected. Somehow, she knows when one of the 4400 has strayed from the master plan—whatever the hell that is—and rights the wrong.”

  “Actually,” Skouris said, now running with what Baldwin was proposing, “she’s more like software designed to make sure a computer doesn’t use too many resources, or that protects against viruses.” Shrugging, she added, “Come to think of it, if we’re going with the idea that the 4400 really are following some sort of programming they’ve been given—something they’re not even aware of themselves—they might not even know when they go off the rails.”

  “So somebody like Callahan is sent to make a correction before the margin for error against the end result becomes too high,” Baldwin said. “A little brutal, but pretty effec
tive.” He blew out a breath, shaking his head. “Marco and the guys are going to have a field day with this.”

  Skouris nodded, almost able to see the young agent drooling at the chance to incorporate all she and Baldwin had learned about Callahan into the team’s ever-evolving theories about the 4400.

  Can’t wait to see what this does to the Ripple Effect.

  As though reading her mind, McFarland asked, “Do you think Callahan may have the whole secret to the 4400 locked away in her brain?”

  She shrugged. “Maybe, but I doubt it. I mean, that’d be too easy, wouldn’t it? From what Alfred said, it’s like she’s responding to some kind of subconscious trigger. More mystery from our friends in the future, I suppose.”

  “The whole idea of someone killing 4400s who don’t comply with the big picture is disturbing to say the least,” Baldwin said, “but you’ve got to admit it makes a sort of sense to program a failsafe like this.”

  Nodding, Skouris said, “Looks like they picked a hell of a failsafe, too.” If only a portion of what she had read about Lona Callahan’s past covert assignments was any indication, the woman was a formidable weapon, even more so now that she had been augmented by the supposed benefactors who had taken her along with the rest of the 4400.

  McFarland said, “That doesn’t explain everyone she’s targeted since she got back in the game. What about Fred Morehouse and Lynn Norton? They weren’t 4400s.”

  “No, but they seem simple enough to explain now,” Baldwin said. “In addition to whatever she’s doing as a 4400, she’s also severing ties to her past life.”

  “And once she finishes with that,” Skouris said, “she’ll be all but impossible to find. We have to get her girlfriend to talk.” The woman, Reiko Vandeberg, had already been questioned, but she had offered little useful information. Dennis Ryland had broached the notion of “alternative interrogation techniques,” but it was not a popular notion. Jarvis had managed to keep it off the table to this point, but Skouris knew the director likely would be overruled if this situation continued to drag out.

  The door to the observation room opened yet again, this time admitting Nina Jarvis. Skouris noted the lines around the director’s eyes and the set to her jaw, deducing that Jarvis was not bearing good news.

  “What’s up?” Baldwin asked.

  Sighing, Jarvis said, “We just got a report from Washington State Patrol. The armored truck transporting Reiko Vandeberg was ambushed. It was run off the road, and the door was blown with C-4. Everyone inside was killed, including Vandeberg. Her throat was cut.”

  “Good God,” McFarland gasped. “Callahan?”

  Jarvis replied, “That’s where I’d put my chips.”

  “Well, there you go,” Baldwin said. “Severing ties, and all that.”

  Of course, Skouris thought. Everyone had known it was a possibility, though she doubted anyone believed it would happen so quickly and in such brutal fashion. “Vandeberg was Callahan’s lover.” She eyed McFarland. “I think we can assume she won’t be pulling punches for people she knows.”

  “Then it’s time for me to stop hiding,” McFarland said, “and come out where she can see me. That’s how we’ll catch her.”

  Skouris recognized the resignation in the man’s voice. He was tired of living in fear and uncertainty, waiting for Callahan to find him. It seemed obvious that the assassin could strike at will, her already impressive skills only enhanced by her extrahuman ability. McFarland wanted to take charge of the situation, in any way he was able. If nothing else, he preferred to die on his feet, at a time and place of his choosing, rather than being hunted down like an animal.

  “There’s got to be a better way than putting you in the line of fire,” she said. “That just seems foolish.”

  McFarland said, “This needs to end here, and given that I had a hand in starting all of this in the first place, I need to take responsibility and help put a stop to it.”

  Jarvis frowned. “I don’t like it, either. At least, not until we learn more about what she can do. For now, I think it’s best if we stick to the current plan and keep you under wraps, Director.”

  Any reply McFarland might have offered was drowned out as Klaxons began wailing, echoing in the small room. An alert-light positioned over the door began pulsing in bright red, and Skouris heard the sound of running feet from beyond the door, responding to whatever emergency appeared to be unfolding.

  “What the hell is that?” McFarland asked.

  Already drawing his weapon, Baldwin said, “Intrusion alarm.”

  THIRTY

  NTAC

  SEATTLE, WASHINGTON

  SIRENS ECHOED IN the narrow, utilitarian passageways and frantic voices bellowed from recessed intercom speakers. The primary lighting had been extinguished, leaving backup lamps to illuminate areas over doorways and at intersections. Rotating bulbs flashed crimson in the darkened spaces, providing an eerie, frantic atmosphere to the scene around her.

  Lona ignored all of it.

  Dressed in a black bodysuit complete with gloves and a hood that covered everything but a narrow slit across her eyes, she made her way down the corridor at something more than normal human speed but still far less than what her abilities allowed. It was still fast enough to avoid the building’s network of security cameras as well as anyone she might encounter as she navigated deeper into the complex. Doing so in this manner allowed her to better regulate the energy she expended by maintaining the time bubble.

  “Security procedure enabled,” said a computer-generated voice, bellowing through the intercom speakers and cutting off the other cross-chatter that seemed on the verge of overloading the system. The diversion Lona had created by tripping an intrusion alarm near one of the building’s rear entrances before darting away using her time-bending ability was drawing the attention of nearly everyone inside, but Lona knew the ruse would work only for a time. NTAC agents quickly would realize that she had to be the intruder and would begin an extensive search of the entire complex. Lockdown protocols were already being deployed, sealing all entrances to prevent anyone from entering or exiting and limiting access to NTAC’s computer network. Lona was only somewhat concerned about the former, setting that aside in order to concentrate on the latter.

  She had expected this development and had planned for it from the beginning, to include contingencies in the event she was unable to gain direct admittance to the computer system and the information she sought. Still, she was impressed at how fast NTAC had responded to whatever threat they had detected. It made sense that the agency would be on elevated alert following her attack on the convoy transporting Reiko. Perhaps she inadvertently had tripped some hidden alarm, or been seen by a vigilant security guard.

  “You! Stop right there!”

  Lona turned and saw a man in a dark uniform wearing an NTAC badge and an empty holster on his belt. His pistol was drawn and aimed at her, and she read the uncertainty in his eyes as he beheld the mysterious, black-clad figure before him. For an instant she considered her own pistol, strapped in its holster along her right thigh, but quickly discarded the notion. In spite of everything that had occurred to this point, including Reiko’s unfortunate yet necessary death, Lona still had no desire to kill anyone who was not a designated mark so long as she possessed other options.

  Thankfully, such alternatives were available.

  It took her less than a heartbeat to cross the distance to the security guard, her left arm sweeping his weapon up and away from her as she drove the heel of her right hand into his jaw. His knees buckled and he collapsed to the floor, an unconscious heap at her feet. Retrieving his fallen pistol, Lona stuck it in the rucksack slung to her back before noticing that the guard was also wired with a portable communications unit clipped to his waist at the small of his back and connected via a coiled cord to a receiver in his left ear. She took this from him as well, affixing the unit to her own waistband. One final check of the man’s pockets found a magnetic key card, which she
pocketed before moving off once more down the corridor.

  Signage on the walls made it easy to keep track of where she was, and within seconds Lona found a stairwell. She descended to Sub-Basement Level 5, the lowest level of the complex, using her ability to make the transit in less than three seconds and encountering no one along the way. A camera was perched near the ceiling at the far end of the passageway, aimed down another leg off an intersection as she emerged from the stairwell. She conjured the bubble and flashed down the corridor fast enough to avoid the camera’s watchful eye, repeating the process to negotiate the intersection and down another hall until she found a room that looked promising. The sign next to the door was labeled “Archives,” and beneath it was a magnetic card reader.

  She heard footsteps behind her and turned in time to see another agent coming around a bend in the corridor. Dressed in street clothes, it was obvious he was not part of any search team. His weapon was holstered and his expression was one of shock as he took in the sight of the ninja-like figure standing before him. He made a move for his pistol but Lona was faster, drawing her .45 semiautomatic pistol from its thigh holster and leveling the muzzle at the man’s chest.

  “Don’t,” she said. In response, he raised his hands, showing her that they were empty. His eyes were wide with fear.

  Keeping her pistol trained on him, Lona took the guard’s stolen key card from her pocket and swiped it through the door’s reader. A red indicator changed to green and the click of a lock disengaging echoed in the narrow corridor. “Inside,” she directed the agent to open the door, following him as they both entered the room. Thankfully, it was empty of occupants, and Lona noted that there were precious few places in which to hide. File cabinets and lockers lined the walls, with a lone desk and computer workstation sandwiched between two sets of bookcases.

  “The building’s locked down,” the man said, his voice betraying more than a hint of fear. “You have to know you’re not going anywhere.”