She considered that. “That’s fine. There’s little risk of discovery of the effort here. Make the necessary excuses but look to spend thirty to sixty minutes per day here to complete the effort.”
He nodded. “Of course.” He glanced at the unblemished armor. “What do we do with that?”
She pointed to a large, coffin-sized crate. “We load it in there.”
“And then?”
“You’ll get to make a special delivery.”
He looked as if ready to protest, then thought better of it. “You have a location in mind?”
“Of course.”
“Where?”
“My apartment.”
“Your… apartment.” It was clear that was among the last places on the planet he would suspect. “Won’t your husband question such a delivery?”
“He’s not home right now.”
He nodded. “Shall we?”
They opened the crate. Deirdre coughed once; the carpenter hadn’t removed the wood shavings inside the box, and she suffered from a mild allergic reaction. They wrestled the suit from the table and into the box before sealing the lid. She found a dolly and they loaded the crate aboard, strapping cords around the box to ensure it didn’t fall off during transport. As they worked, she explained more. What he’d need to do to get into the building and to her apartment with a massive crate without running into issues. How to unlock the door and get inside the apartment. About the hidden closet in her bedroom, and how to open the doors.
He glanced at the delivery company uniform she provided. “You’ve really thought this through, haven’t you?”
She nodded. It was all she’d thought about for weeks.
“Why are we storing this suit at your apartment?”
She hesitated. “Because… that’s where it’s most likely to be needed.”
He frowned. “That makes no sense. Why would a suit of armor built for soldiers be most needed at a private apartment in the middle of the cityplex?”
She turned away from him. “When you’re done, you’re free to go home for the day. Track down your wife and go out to a nice dinner. My treat.”
He paused. “I… don’t think that’s likely. We… well, there was this text message, and I accused her of cheating on me because of it, and I don’t think she wants to see me.”
“Do you want to see her?” Deirdre asked.
“It’s complicated.”
“Why?”
“There’s someone else.”
She turned around. “Really? Anyone I know, Stephen?”
His eyes smoldered. “I think so.”
She was in his arms seconds later.
It was so much better this time.
And her elaborate plan to save his life? He’d just made the effort worthwhile.
sixteen
Micah Jamison
…exorbitant cost and risk of crossing polar ice caps or shipping troops and equipment to enemy territory make the idea of leaving soldiers behind for integration into enemy society and more direct reports of activity foolhardy…
The History of the Western Alliance, page 815
Micah Jamison paced the floor, his lack of focus generating exceptionally heavy footsteps that reverberated through the office, shaking the materials scattered haphazardly on his desk.
He’d not wanted to believe what he’d seen when he’d arrived that morning. The evidence seemed incontrovertible. He needed a different set of eyes and a different way of thinking to review the evidence and tell him the evidence didn’t mean what he thought it meant.
He needed Sheila here. Now.
Where the hell was she?
He decided he’d rather be there when she entered the Bunker rather than wait here for her arrival. As he left his office, as he heard the previously satisfying click of the locks engaging behind him, he wondered if he’d been too rash, too hasty, in sending the text message so early after she’d risked arrest driving home after curfew. He’d certainly bail her out, use his connections to ensure nothing appeared on her record, but she’d made it home without incident. And thanks to him, without much sleep.
But this couldn’t wait.
He strolled into the main lobby of The Bunker.
The Bunker was a clandestine underground military outpost serving as both a think tank and observation station. His team monitored the scant information retrieved from Eastern territories, watching for actual troop activity, interpreting intercepted communications, and identifying military applications of any and all newly minted private sector products. Breaking with social norms, people worked at the Bunker throughout the night. Shifts ensured that none of his people needed to travel during curfew hours. With only two exceptions, the employees here were soldiers who’d completed the basic defensive training and who’d not graduated into the ranks of soldiers able and willing to learn offensive tactics.
He’d designed the Bunker himself, including the hidden area he’d shown Sheila Clarke in the darkest hours of the night. He knew all of its secrets. And no one else knew.
Or so he’d thought.
He watched as the workers mingled in the lobby, some arriving from the elaborate entry system, some leaving in a similar manner. Wesley Cardinal looked terrible, like he’d been ill, and Micah watched as the man stumbled around the lobby as if under the influence of some powerful intoxicant, talking to himself. His fellow employees said nothing aloud, but looks of disgust covered their faces. Sheila had made her discomfort with and dislike of the man quite public, and Cardinal made no secret of the fact that his feelings toward the General’s primary assistant were mutual.
Wesley served as an observer, tasked with reviewing video footage of Eastern news programs, government press conferences, and television programs. Any might reveal weaknesses in the Enemy culture or provide hints about impending military action. More senior—and, to be honest, Micah thought with a grim smile—more stable observers would be entrusted with actual footage of Eastern troops and ships, looking through hours of footage to try to identify weapons advances or training rituals that might portend how the East might choose to invade the West.
Little did they know that the General already knew exactly how that would work, and that the secret rested in a secure holding tank fifty feet below.
Wesley moved to the main desk to retrieve his assignment and video disks for his shift. He also picked up a folder containing notes made by a previous observer; those notes would give him some insight into what might be the most interesting footage in his materials.
Wesley skimmed the contents of the folder and scowled before looking up. The disinterested scowl deepened into something far more intense. Jamison followed Wesley’s eyes to the source of the man’s anger.
Sheila.
She looked shaken, and he wondered again just how upsetting his text had been. When she saw him standing in the lobby, her frown deepened. He rarely exited his office, and he had little doubt that his presence here magnified the concerns she had about the text message he’d sent. She started walking toward him.
Wesley Cardinal screamed, as if in immense pain, and charged her. Sheila turned to see him rushing her way, her face awash in shock at the sudden attack, and she adopted a defensive stance as the crazed man plowed into her. Both fell to the carpeted floor. Micah winced. Even with the padding beneath the carpeting, they’d still landed on a surface formed of solid concrete.
The space went silent as every person present ceased speaking and stopped moving, riveted in shock at the unprovoked attack. Jamison moved toward the combatants. Seconds after the fighting started, the crowd began ringing the fighters, slowing his progress.
Wesley’s face was purpled with rage, his movements fueled as if by a massive surge in adrenaline. Jamison could only wonder if the man had ingested some type of narcotic, for the behavior was abnormal even by Wesley’s standards. The man was quirky, certainly not one prone to physical assault.
Not until today.
The overwhelming i
ntensity of his assault enabled him to straddle Sheila, and he tried to reach his hands to her throat. Sheila kept her arms between her attacker and her throat, eyes wide in fear and shock.
“Wesley Cardinal! Cease at once!” Jamison shouted. He tried to push his way through the crowd. “Ladies and gentleman, either assist Ms. Clarke or step aside!”
No one moved.
He started pushing his way through, with enough force to both open a pathway and let those shifted know that he was exceptionally displeased at the necessity.
Sheila managed to shift her hips enough to alter Wesley’s balance. When his weight shifted, she whipped her legs up in an incredible display of flexibility, slamming her knees into the back of his head. The blow stunned Wesley. Sheila arched her back and Wesley toppled off her, shaking his head to regain his balance. Sheila rolled off her back to her knees.
“People, help her or move!” Jamison shouted again.
A few people glanced his way, seemingly more annoyed at the General interrupting the entertainment than they were at one coworker attacking another. Jamison saw Art and Simon, two men who often posed as security guards on the aboveground floors, begin pushing through the crowds, shouting at Cardinal to remain still.
Wesley, though, had other ideas. With a scream of rage, he shot toward Sheila.
She rolled to the side at the last second, lashing out one leg. She caught Wesley’s ankle, and the manic man lost his balance, crashing at full speed into the nearest wall.
He slumped to the ground, stunned.
The entire fight lasted less than thirty seconds.
The guards reached Wesley and dragged him to his feet as Jamison finally reached Sheila. “Are you okay?”
She climbed to her feet, unsteady, and brushed some dust from her sleeves. “Never better.” She raised a hand to her cheek and touched it with tenderness, and he didn’t miss the slight wince at contact.
Art and Simon dragged Wesley—who couldn’t or wouldn’t use his legs—toward Jamison as the crowd began to disperse, still buzzing loudly over the attack. They shot looks of disgust at the man as the guards hauled him toward the General. Jamison felt his face tighten as the man neared, in part due to his disgust at the man’s actions, and in part because he could hear Sheila’s unspoken words in his mind.
I told you he was unstable. I told you he ought to be fired.
She didn’t know that wasn’t possible, but that didn’t lessen the propriety of her righteous indignation.
“Did you see what happened, sir?” Simon was the shorter of the two men, and kept his voice quiet.
Jamison did not. “Did I see a crowd of people reportedly interested in protecting the innocent stand by and watch as one of their own suffered an unprovoked attack?” His voice carried across the lobby and into the hallways spurring off in various directions, and he could see people slow as his words reached them. “Did I notice that those spectators refused to step aside for those willing to assist their colleague lest they miss out on the entertainment—” he spat out the word “—before them?” He looked around, knowing his gaze burned into each person in his line of sight like fire. “Yes, I did notice that. And I confess to being singularly embarrassed by every person who stood by in such a manner, and find myself wondering if I perhaps ought to consider refreshing the personnel working here.”
He could see faces fall, eyes search for the floor, shoulders slump, as the men and women accelerated their pace out of the lobby. A few walked by and murmured “sorry” in Sheila’s general direction.
Art, the taller of the guards, stood up straighter. “Sir, what should we do with this… person?”
Sheila, who’d been massaging her shoulder, snorted.
“Toss him in the brig.” Jamison’s voice was a whisper, but the words had the desired effect. Cardinal’s face turned red, and beads of perspiration appeared on his face. He was terrified of the brig.
Good.
He turned his attention to Sheila once more as the guards hauled the prisoner away. “Are you okay?”
“I told you I’m fine!” she snapped. Then, chastened: “Sir.”
He studied her face. “You looked upset before Mr. Cardinal’s actions.”
She hesitated. “It’s been a hell of a morning, sir. I’d rather… I’d rather not say more than that. Sir.”
He nodded and headed to his office, knowing she’d follow.
He stopped outside the door and pointed. “Notice anything?”
She looked at him, then at the door. She’d folded her arms tightly against her chest, and he could see a slight tremble. He was trying to get her mind off the attack and onto what he’d called her in to review, but knew it would be difficult. “No. Should I?”
He moved closer and tapped the door frame where the handle and lock connected door and jamb. “Are you sure?”
She moved closer and bent down, looking at the surface before standing back up. “What am I looking for?”
“Nothing. Not yet. You’ve confirmed to me that we’ll have better data to understand what happened and when.”
“But—”
He tapped in his code and unlocked the door, pushing it open, but remaining in the hallway.
She frowned. “I thought you needed your badge?”
“Typically, yes. But there’s an override code built in that I can use if I’ve misplaced my badge. The system’s programmed to send me and my supervisors an email about my sloppiness and warn me of security risks arising from my badge being anywhere other than on my person.”
“So… you don’t need your badge to get into your office?”
“No. What does that tell you, Sheila?”
She considered. “It tells me that anyone with the code you just used could access your office.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
He waited, allowing her to piece the clues together.
“You texted me in an unusual manner and told me I needed to get here quickly.” She started to pace. “You were waiting for me in the lobby, also unusual. Those mean something of profound and likely negative importance happened.” She paused and looked at the door. “And now you’ve told me that one can enter your office without…”
Her hand went to her mouth as she realized the implications.
He nodded. “Someone broke into my office after we finished up. And there have been no break-ins to the Bunker over the past twenty-four hours. That means…”
She shivered again, for a different reason this time. “Someone on staff broke into your office. It means that someone here is a spy for the Eastern Alliance.”
seventeen
Wesley Cardinal
…prison sentences in the cityplexes varied by crime and local preference… the military has not made public its own standards regarding incarceration…
The History of the Western Alliance, page 333
Groggy consciousness returned. Wesley found himself supported under each arm, dragged forward as his feet rested on the floor, sliding along. The boots felt warm due to the friction. His body hurt, and his mind felt numb. He shook his head once to clear his mind and look around.
Art and Simon held him aloft, dragging him down one of the hallways, one he barely recognized. He searched his memory, trying to identify something. A word came to mind, a word he’d heard from the General’s own lips.
Brig.
He felt numb. He’d heard of the brig. He recognized this hallway now, the path to doom, the road to the room without exit and without mercy.
His memory returned in pieces, including the General’s words, condemning him to this fate. But why? Why couldn’t he remember? He’d entered the lobby, his head pounding after a night of horrible dreams, and then… nothing. He remembered nothing until he woke up while being frog-marched to the Bunker’s brig.
He lifted his feet and tried to walk along, hoping he might regain enough strength to break free.
“Ah, look who’s awake!” Simon chirped. He gave Wesley’s arm a vi
cious shake, and Wesley stumbled, bumping into Art. Art threw his shoulder into Wesley’s side to knock him back toward Simon. He threw down his left foot to brace himself and hoped to use the shift in balance to break free, but the guards expected the move. Both lurched forward and pinned Wesley’s shoulders lower, preventing him from standing to his full height. He was forced to walk in a slouched posture.
“So, you psychotic little moron,” Simon drawled, “why’d you do it?”
“Do what?”
Art laughed. “Clever guy, this Wesley. He wants us to think he doesn’t remember. Is that what you think, Wesley? You think we won’t remember? You think if we don’t remember we’ll just ignore the General’s orders and let you go?”
Wesley focused on his feet, trying to time their footsteps and time a forward kick to gain his balance. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Simon snorted. “I have to admit, Cardinal, that was either the bravest or stupidest thing I’ve ever seen. Tackling the General’s golden girl in front of everyone? I mean…” He glanced over at Art. “I’m the first to confess I’ve thought about, um, tackling the lovely Ms. Clarke on a few occasions.” Art laughed. “But it never occurred to me to act on that interest in front of the entire freaking office.”
His memory cleared. He’d entered the lobby, feeling the pounding of the terrible headache that usually indicated he’d been bludgeoned by the Voice’s shrieking torture. He’d wobbled around as he worked his way to the main desk for his assignment materials. He’d seen Sheila Clarke, who’d arrived only a few moments after him, undoubtedly screaming as usual as the modified elevator lowered her from the parking garage entryway. He’d muttered a few choice words about her.
The Voice had heard him.
Sheila Clarke is a threat to your mission and your continued existence, Wesley. You must kill her. Now.
He’d protested.
The shrieking sound pounded inside his head, moderating only when he attacked his nemesis, the woman who’d tried to get him fired.
Activate The Ravagers Ep1v2 Page 9
