Most of all, he knew about the Obsidian Group, the investors who had funded the Midlands research facility. But how?
He put on the contacts and shield specs again, and raised the shield shades so he could stare at Mount Rainier again. To an unmod the mountain would be completely hidden in the gathering dusk. He could see it just fine even through shield specs.
He’d chosen this office for that mountain. The view chilled him like an analog hook. He’d climbed it many times. Even from a distance, he could could almost smell the snow, feel icy air burn his nose and the jagged black rock scraping his fingertips.
He pictured huge, cold spaces around him, vast and empty. Big enough even for him to breathe, to move. To fully exist without crashing into anything.
He wondered if he’d screwed them all, with this one impulsive, stupid move.
Asa could be lying about Batello, of course. But why would he? Asa had his faults, sure, but dishonesty was not one of them.
Only death could be more honest than thirteen years of silence.
Chapter 4
The door burst open. Noah blocked his eyes, but not before the light flooding in gave his head a sharp, rattling zing. Shit.
Stupid, not to lock the door while his shield specs were off. He was getting sloppy.
Zade Ryan entered, the door shut, and the light dropped back to manageable levels.
“You could knock,” Noah said.
“I don’t believe in giving advance warning,” Zade replied.
“This isn’t a surprise attack.” Noah rubbed his throbbing forehead. “I hope.”
“Relax, Noah. Sisko told me that I was summoned into your exalted presence, so here I am. I’ve been out there, doing your bidding.”
“Yeah? What bidding was that? Refresh my memory.”
“Keeping tabs on Mark Olund’s girlfriends, among other things,” Zade said. “Did you like your dance? Sisko said the chick made a big impression on you. Sorry I missed it, but I couldn’t let her see me, since I’m the one who’s been tailing her.”
Noah’s jaw ached from tension. “You had your heads up your asses to bring her in here without telling me.”
Zade looked unrepentant. “She might know something about Luke. Look at this.” He tapped at his phone.
Noah turned his AVP on Zade as he established the data connection to do a quick scan. Nothing unusual. Zade looked the same as always, outwardly, which made Noah’s teeth grind. He urged his people to blend in visually, with varying levels of success. But Zade took his rejection of Noah’s advice to a whole new level. The guy was six-four and two-thirty, and more good-looking than was good for him, though even Noah couldn’t fault him for that. But the rest was over the top. The black mane, the earring, the tattoos, and the studded leather jacket, distressed not by a fashion machine but for real after getting scraped a quarter mile over a rough road when Zade wiped out on his motorcycle. Another accident he’d survived somehow. He took chances.
“Is Mark here in town with her?” Noah asked.
“Can’t say,” Zade said. “I haven’t seen any signs of him. Just her. Look. Check this out.”
A photo popped up on the wall monitor. Noah narrowed his eyes against the light as a photo of a beautiful girl appeared on the monitor. Long dark curly hair. Pale skin. Light green eyes. She looked younger, more vulnerable, somehow, without the dancer’s makeup.
“Hot, right?”
“Yeah.” Noah took a moment to ensure that his voice was even. “So what’s her story?”
“Creative type. You know, a freelancer. But she used to have a real job. High level tech.”
Noah wasn’t sure he’d heard right. “Yeah? Doing what exactly?”
“Consulting. Or something like that. But there’s a twist. Her boss was murdered last year.”
“What?” Noah looked away from the photo, startled. “Murdered how?”
“Shot at close range. She’s a person of interest. The investigation turned up evidence that she stole industrial secrets from her boss and sold them.”
“Is that all?” The comment was meant to be wry, but Zade didn’t get it.
“No. Another man was stabbed to death at the scene. Caroline Bishop hasn’t been seen since. But Mark was parading her around like a girlfriend for a little while before the murders, which is why she’s in my database. I tagged her photo file with my fave facial-recog program and yesterday I got a ping from the microcam I stuck onto Bea McDougal’s sandwich truck. Ran right over and spotted her just in time to start a tail.”
Noah studied the monitor. “She didn’t kill anyone.”
Zade gave a quick nod of agreement. “Which made me think that she was probably framed. Like Luke. She might know something. We should talk to her.”
Zade’s voice vibrated with suppressed emotion.
Zade’s twin brother Luke Ryan was another Midlands veteran of rebellion day.
As of last year, Luke had been chief of security for a Chicago billionaire—until the man was found with two bullets from Luke’s gun in his head. Luke himself had vanished, along with eighty million dollars in bearer bonds and a hoard of priceless antique jewelry. A manhunt was launched. Luke stayed lost. So did the loot.
Luke’s girlfriend Bea McDougal had changed her name and her appearance, then gone into hiding for reasons still unclear. Noah and his people kept track of her for Luke’s sake. Bea aka Marika now sold sandwiches from a food truck, never staying long in any one place. For the past few months she’d been in Seattle.
The Midlanders knew things about Luke that the police, Interpol and the FBI didn’t. Most importantly: that Luke was not a killer or a thief. It would never even occur to him to hurt someone innocent or rip someone off.
And he had to be alive. They just didn’t know where. Only an all-out psychopath with a full arsenal of augmentations and enhancements could have taken out a warrior like Luke.
Someone like, say, Mark Olund. Who hated them all ferociously.
But they had no proof, and they couldn’t reveal their suspicions without giving themselves away. Or so Noah constantly repeated to his restless crew.
“I’ll show you her conversation with Bea,” Zade said, thumbing his phone. “The microcam was slapped up under the awning.”
The still photo on the monitor was replaced by footage of lined-up people peering into a food truck window. “Caroline Bishop is third in line. Big black coat,” Zade said. “See her?”
Noah’s heart thudded heavily. The woman Zade had indicated was hunched and nondescript. The fisheye lens of the microcam fastened to the truck distorted faces. But he recognized hers when she looked up. The swift glimpse of wide, shadowy eyes was startling. She seemed much thinner and paler than in the photo. She reached for her sandwich, and asked Bea a question.
“No audio?” Noah asked.
“Conked out,” Zade said.
Bea flapped her hands in a gesture that was clearly meant to get Caroline Bishop to go away.
She didn’t. She appeared to be pleading.
Bea jerked back into the truck and slammed the window shut. The people behind Bishop in line protested. One man knocked on the window. The feed began to blur as the truck pulled away.
Caroline was left behind, standing on the street.
“That’s all. Didn’t look like Bishop was threatening her, did it?” Zade said.
“More like she was asking her for something,” Noah said. “Or begging her.”
“What I was thinking myself.”
Did you keep tailing her?” Noah asked.
“Yeah.” Zade held up his phone. “With this for a backup camera. They went to the hospital. Look.” He thumbed the phone again.
This clip showed a slim form in a fuzzy rainbow wig, a big red nose and a baggy patchwork suit. A huge rubber stethoscope hung around her neck.
“She’s a clown,” Zade said. “Cheering up the kids in the cancer ward.”
“How the hell did you blend in there?”
�
��Grabbed some scrubs from a closet and changed fast. Got lucky on the size. I filmed this from behind a food trolley in the corridor.”
The kids in the room were hollow-eyed. Some had IV’s, some didn’t. Most lay on rolling hospital beds. They watched the spectacle as she juggled fruit, did tricks and examined kids with her toy stethoscope. After her show the camera followed her down a corridor. She disappeared into a bathroom. The figure who emerged was shapeless and stooped, wearing the hat and oversized winter coat that Noah had seen on her earlier that day.
“She stopped in here next,” Zade said. The camera zoomed in on a storefront.
“Bounce Entertainment?”
“Her current employer, evidently.” Zade stared into his phone, syncing up the video stream with Noah’s monitor and zooming in for a closeup of the signs taped to the storefront window.
Noah read aloud in a flat voice. “We’re the Party People. Unique Themes for All Occasions and All Ages. Ask About Our Balloon Animals Special. That’s a big step down from tech consulting.”
“Ya think? OK, then she went to the Stray Cat Pub in Greenwood.” More footage in the dark. The audio was a confusing babble. Drums started to throb. Wailing instruments cut through the din.
The camera focused in on a dancing figure swathed in purple veils.
“Belly dancing for a bachelor party,” Zade said. “That gave us our idea.”
Noah stared at the graceful arch of Bishop’s slender back. Veils swayed, light flashed and glittered off her jangling belt and delicate chains. Those striking, tilted green eyes were framed with showy make-up. Her tits jiggled as her hips swiveled with insolent grace. And then there was that smile.
An AVP surge started happening, even via digital footage. His ears roared, his heart galloped.
“. . . . Noah?” Zade’s voice cut through the buzz. “Hey! You tracking?”
“Huh?” Noah dragged his eyes from the monitor.
“I was just saying, the chick’s in hiding. Definitely. She wouldn’t be clown-slash-belly dancer if she were on Mark’s payroll.”
“Let’s not jump to conclusions,” Noah said.
“God forbid we do anything as attention-getting as jumping, even if it’s to conclusions,” Zade grumbled. “We just stand around like embalmed corpses.”
“I bust my ass to keep you from becoming a corpse,” Noah said. “Turn that thing off. I’ve seen enough.”
Zade poked his phone with dramatic emphasis. The flickering screen froze.
“You need more proof?” Zade’s voice was belligerent. “Call up the entertainment agency. Ask for Shamira.”
Noah willed his heart to slow. “What would that accomplish?”
Zade shrugged. “Might shut you up. Our consensus is that she isn’t on Mark’s team. He wouldn’t let her work these two-bit gigs.”
“We don’t know that for sure,” Noah said.
Zade smirked. “You like to run AVP with the lights way down low, right? So order a dance. Schmooze, flirt, suss this girl out. Use your fucking abilities, dude. Besides, she’s not the real problem. Mark is. We should have neutralized him years ago.”
“I didn’t want to. And that was the right decision,” Noah said.
Zade’s face was grim. “Mark’s been hurting people ever since he got out. He’s a Midlands monster, just like they wanted us to be. But monsters should stay in cages. We’re the ones who turned him loose, so we should shut him down. Because truthfully? No one else on earth can.”
“We didn’t create him,” Noah ground out. “That’s not on us.”
“Maybe not,” Zade replied. “But we owe my brother.”
“I know,” Noah said. “But we have no proof that Mark’s responsible.”
“No?” Zade gestured at the monitor. “What do you call this?”
“I call it a mystery to be unraveled,” Noah said. “Carefully. Discreetly.”
He and Zade glared at each other. Like always, it fell to him to be the hardass.
Zade looked away, shaking his head. “The girl could be useful, if you play her right.” Zade tossed a glossy brochure on his desk. “That’s from Bounce, in case you give a shit. I’m outta here.”
“Zade,” Noah said. “Stay away from her.”
Zade stopped at the door. “Is that an order?”
“We need to be on the same page for this to work,” Noah said.
“Not possible, man, if you’re going to be the only one who gets to write on it.” Zade reached out as he went through the door and slapped on the lights, all at once.
“Fuck you! Jesus, that hurts!”
“Blinded by the light? Deal with it.”
Noah turned the lights back off as he heard Zade walk away, whistling.
It drove him nuts, that Zade assumed that he needed to force Noah to save his brother Luke. Nothing could be farther from the truth. Noah was fucking tired of him and the others. Their brains buzzed at uncontrollable frequencies. Outside the box didn’t even describe it. More like outside the fucking building.
But they were his best buds, all of them. Until they turned into raging, paranoid maniacs. Who still wanted to be tucked into bed after hearing a reassuring story from Noah.
Fuck them ten times over.
He realized that his sight was returning. No thanks to Zade, who was long gone.
A tentative knock sounded on the door. “Mr. Gallagher?”
“Go away,” he said harshly. “Everyone. Stay the hell away. All of you.”
It was only Harriet Aronsen, his office manager. He shouldn’t use that tone with her, but currently had no fucks to give. Everyone should stay away.
He’d keep his own distance if he could. Just abandon his own rage, lock it up in a reinforced steel box, bury it and forget where he’d left it.
But he couldn’t.
The brochure Zade left caught his eye. He picked it up.
Bounce. Your one-stop shopping for party entertainers. Exclamation point. Noah squinted. Make that three exclamation points. He unfolded it. The window signs he’d seen on the monitor didn’t remotely cover everything on offer. DJ’s, karaoke, clowns, children’s parties, fire breathers, sword swallowers, strip-o-grams, Dickens carolers, celebrity lookalikes, giant inflatable rats and snakes, and last but not least, nearly naked representatives of every gender bursting out of cardboard cakes. Plus, hmm, costume design and rental for parties, school, community and professional theater productions. Noah studied a glossy photo of a guy in spangles, exhaling fire and jumping through hoops. He could identify.
There were no photos of Caroline Bishop.
Freeze-framed, she gazed seductively over her shoulder from the video monitor, looking at him through long lashes. So maybe she was Mark’s spy sent to infiltrate them. Or else Mark’s victim, framed for a vicious murder he committed.
The second option was almost as bad as the first, come to think of it. The Midlanders had a crap-ton of issues. They did not need police scrutiny of any kind.
Convincing though their fake identities might be, they were best left unquestioned. And unobserved.
His losses on rebellion day had taught him the price of boldness. All that was left now was a relentless will to keep his freaky tribe alive and thriving. They wouldn’t beat Obsidian by acting like victims.
Nope. No grand gestures for him. Slow, steady and secretive would win the race.
But Zade was right, much as he hated to admit it. They needed to know what Bishop knew. How how she fit in to this. Why she was hiding.
He’d never run an AVP scan on a woman who affected him this strongly. It might not even be safe for her.
He might not be.
He wanted a long, private, leisurely, unfiltered look in dim light. AVP running free. No spectators. No distractions. Naked eyes. Raw, unfiltered data. Yeah.
He reached for the smartphone, glancing at the video monitor. The seductive flash of her green eyes.
Hah. He could rationalize his ass off, but he knew why he was making that
call.
There was no arguing with a stiff dick. It always had the last word.
Chapter 5
“Open the vault, General,” Mark Olund said. “You don’t want to make me angry.”
General Colin Kitteridge’s lungs hitched, constricted by the hot air of the high, remote desert and the microscopic dust that drifted endlessly through Obsidian’s vast research complex. He struggled against the duct tape that bound him, his eyes bugging out, straining to see his tormenter.
Mark was unable to help with that. He could have turned on lights, but less light gave him more control with AVP. Control meant the difference between victory and disaster.
Kitteridge’s rigid ass was taped to a folding stool that Mark had set right in front of the GodsEye Biometric vault door. The man’s own brain was the key to open it. Without the general’s cooperation, any attempt to open the vault would turn its precious contents into ash and cinders.
The GodsEye brainwave sensor helmet looked ridiculous on Kitteridge’s sweaty bald head. But the general couldn’t see himself and Mark didn’t care. So long as it worked.
“I can’t open it,” Kitteridge said.
Mark gave the man’s sig a quick surface reading and concluded that the general was lying. A strongly fortified lie that almost looked like a truth. But not quite.
The old man was tough. He’d die with honor. Screaming and writhing, of course. But never surrendering. He didn’t know that Mark was a genius at finding soft spots and brutally exploiting them.
“Your colleague Lydia Bachmann explained the principles of GodsEye Biometrics to me eight months ago,” Mark said. “Right before she died.”
The general’s sig flashed in startled agitation. “Lydia? You killed her?”
“Never mind Lydia right now. Open the fucking vault.”
Kitteridge closed his eyes, but his sig revealed that, far from doing as he was told, he was summoning the energy to fortify his defenses. He was a career soldier and an ex-POW, not a pampered asshole. He knew something about suffering.
Right Through Me (The Obsidian Files #1) Page 5
