“I’ll get those root beers and be back,” Quinn said.
Jesus, Quinn thought. The real servers better earn good tips for putting up with this kind of drudgery. After retrieving two sodas and two glasses of ice, she found herself getting thirsty. She pulled out a third bottle, opened all three, and took a big swig from one before hiding the bottle in the corner, charging all three to Mr. Underhill’s tab.
Quinn returned to the table, only to find that the girl was nowhere to be found. She dropped the sodas and glasses on the table and left. She had a job to do, damn it. She made her way over to the adult end of the pool, where pale, soft-bellied men lounged in their expensive swim trunks and talked to one another or on their phones. Then she spotted him.
George Hatch. CEO of Scorpio Cooling Systems.
He was mid-fifties and fitter than most of the other men, and sat there on his lounge chair talking on a portable phone device tucked into his ear. He had a businesslike expression and spoke softly, but there was a calm confidence about him that was different than the goal-driven intensity of men like Jonathan Stilwell or Gary Linden. It was the confidence of the supremely wealthy and powerful.
It wasn’t time yet. She needed to catch him between calls.
She served a few nearby adults, bringing them everything from bottled bubbly water to scotch neat, none taking any real interest in her other than to transact, which was fine by her. She needed to be forgettable, and the purple wig ironically achieved that. She was, to them, just another Downtownie.
On one errand, she passed Jones, who was heading to the water to test its temperature.
Finally, when George Hatch seemed to stop talking, indicating he was off the phone, he closed his eyes for a moment, as if centering himself.
“You look like you could use some refreshment,” she said, smiling at him.
He looked up at her. “You read my mind. How about one of those veggie smoothies? With the cactus juice?”
Hatch was a healthy type. Quinn was almost impressed. “Coming right up, sir.”
She returned with his beverage, then went back to the service area and took a few long pulls of her root beer. Despite the temperature-controlled environment, she was hot. She realized it was due to the humidity created by the pool.
She sent a quick message to Jones. I’m up to bat.
When Jones acknowledged, Quinn felt her heart speed up. It had been a while since they’d done a real job, and she’d missed it.
She headed straight for George Hatch. When she approached, he looked up.
“I’m sorry to bother you, Mr. Hatch. But I’m supposed to let you know it’s time for your massage.”
Hatch glanced at his watch, then gave a nod. He stood up and headed toward the massage rooms after letting his wife know. Quinn messaged Jones again.
Ball in play.
She waited, then followed him. But when she arrived, Jones and Hatch were standing in the hallway, and she could immediately tell something was wrong. Hatch looked annoyed. And Jones looked nervous.
“Is everything okay, Mr. Hatch?” she asked.
“This isn’t my usual masseur. This isn’t Peter.” He wasn’t whiny or angry. Only suspicious.
She knew why. Men of Hatch’s status knew to suspect anything amiss, as they were huge targets for mind thieves. Particularly after having already encountered them.
“Jeremy is new here, sir,” she said. “But I will page Benicio. Maybe he can tell you if Peter will be available later today, if you like…”
“Good,” he said with a single nod, and he turned and left.
Quinn ran off and found Benicio, telling him the situation and offering a way around it. Benicio nodded and went to find Hatch. Quinn waited, holding her breath. The two men spoke for a moment, then Hatch nodded and followed Benicio back toward the massage rooms.
Relief flooded her. It had worked. What Hatch needed wasn’t Peter, it was to know he was safe. Benicio’s promise to remain in the massage room had solved that problem, as Benicio had worked at The Oasis for years, long enough to earn Hatch’s trust.
And so it was. Before long, Quinn got her cue. She entered the massage room and sat down on the floor next to where Hatch lay sleeping. After attaching her nodes, she looked up at Jones, who smiled wryly.
“Ready for a good ride?” he asked.
She nodded, and closed her eyes.
It felt cool but comforting. Soft, fluid… strange.
Wet.
She was in the pool, submerged up to her neck.
But it was dark. She felt the water surrounding her body, with nothing underneath her feet. Somehow she kept her head above water, her arms and legs slicing through it this way and that, treading water.
How weird it felt! She’d been submerged before while jacked in, but it had never felt like this, so real, so comforting… so womb-like.
The only light was in the distance, a golden glow, a beacon calling to her. She paddled toward it.
She kept going, slowly, wondering when she would reach the side of the pool and smack into the unforgiving concrete. But she didn’t, and the pool seemed to go on and on, toward the light. She kept looking around, waiting for Hatch’s defenses to kick in, for some creature to appear out of nowhere and swallow her whole. But there was nothing but water, and that glow. Then something seemed to urge her forward, like the pool contracted somehow.
It was the most relaxing initial jack-in she’d ever experienced. It seemed Hatch’s outer calm reflected an inner one that he’d honed over many years. It impressed her. If only she could achieve such mental control.
When Quinn reached the light, she was bathed in gold—warm, soothing, healing gold—and she felt herself smile.
Suddenly, she was thrust through the light, and next thing she knew she was plummeting into blackness… no water, no flight device, no nothing. Down she fell, falling so fast that it stole the breath from her lungs and she couldn’t scream or even breathe. Fear spread through her as she fell faster and faster, so fast she had no control over her body and was cast about by the nothingness. Panicky feelings rose, knowing that once she collided with anything—the ground, the water, anything at all—she would not survive.
A scream came out of her, silent as she thrashed about. And then Quinn remembered. This was all an illusion, carefully constructed by Hatch’s mind to prevent her from accessing what she’d come for.
You’re fine. You’re safe. Just fall, then land.
In the pitch-black darkness, she let herself fall, mining her own memory banks for something pleasant. The taste of a diablo with real lime. Air conditioning after being out in the three-digit heat all afternoon. Her new apartment in Mayfair.
Soon, she fell no more and found her footing. There was another light; she walked toward it until she saw a door. She looked for locks or other security measures, the kind she typically had to figure out a way around, but there were none. And when she turned that door handle, it opened easily.
On the other side, she found another door. Then another. She opened doors one after the next for so long it became rote, and she knew she was stuck in a mental loop, Hatch’s training chipping away at a jacker’s most valuable commodity: time.
Quinn quelled any sense of panic and closed her eyes. Focus on the task. Find your way in.
She reached into her pocket, feeling her energy weapon. She retrieved it, then cut through the wall to bypass the endless doors, unsure if it would amount to anything other than more doors. When finished cutting, she gave the cut panel a push.
The flood came. Feelings, thoughts, memories… whizzing past her like Downtown taxis in low traffic.
Workouts. Darkness and candles and a small water bath… a homemade meditation room. Vigorous sex with a good-looking spouse. And time at the pool with the kids, showing them proper swim form and making sure they only drank one soda and no more. Odors of food and cologne and herbs.
Then, work. Meetings, lots of them. Phone calls, even more of those. All tak
ing place while Hatch was on a treadmill or doing some sort of physical exercise.
Finally, colleagues around a conference room table: men and women in expensive suits, some familiar to Quinn. Powerful people with concerned faces, all talking mumbo jumbo.
A few images swept past, snippets of them: men in black, approaching, accosting…
One was clearer than the rest. She focused on it, something telling her it was of crucial importance, and would lead her to the answers. When a hallway appeared, she walked down it until it grew dim.
Then she stood in an apartment, old and cheaply furnished, with a rust-colored couch that had a tear in its cushion, the white stuffing trying to escape. The place felt hot, stifling even, like it had no air conditioning. Men in blue—paramedics, maybe—carried someone on a stretcher. Quinn watched, her eyes drawn to the person, whose body was still. She saw a feminine hand, then a pale face. Too pale.
Quinn’s breath left her body and pain seared through her chest, like her heart had split in half.
It was her mother’s face.
“Mom,” she cried, knowing her mom wouldn’t respond but still repeating it again, then again. She ran toward the body but someone grabbed her from behind.
And she started to scream.
Then it was gone. All of it.
“Quinn,” came a whisper.
Someone shook her. She opened her eyes, wondering why they felt wet. Jones kneeled in front of her, his blue-green eyes staring into hers with a strange mixture of concern and impatience.
“We gotta go,” he said. “Right now.”
Chapter 11
“Job done. Data coming.”
Quinn sent off the message before she and Jones hopped off the train at 28th Street, the closest stop to Sidewinder. They changed in the restroom and grabbed the gear they’d stored in a locker, and headed to the bar.
They said nothing on the way, never knowing for sure who could be nearby and listening. And silence was fine with Quinn. She was still haunted by what she’d encountered in Hatch’s supposedly calm mind.
When Jones had pulled her out, Quinn, still disoriented, had jumped up, delivered the custom transitional memory of the hallway and massage room to Hatch’s mind, then followed Jones out the back door. They left Hatch’s slumbering body there with only moments before he would awaken to find Benicio. They’d scrambled down the stuffy, overheated stairwell and made for the train.
Finally, in a booth at Sidewinder and beverages in hand, Jones ignored his computer and their data device and looked at her.
“What happened in there?” he said.
Quinn closed her eyes for a moment, the imagery still vivid and disconcerting. “How did you know?”
“You started squirmin’, and then cryin’. Scared the shit out of me.”
“That makes two of us.” Quinn pushed away the disturbing imagery. “Hatch got the platinum package for mind protection. It starts out calm and lulls you into a false sense of security, and then it drags your calm ass into free-fall and a long series of other obstacles… then to reliving the day your mother died and they rolled her out of our apartment on a gurney.” She bit back the tears and took a swig of her diablo.
“Fuck.”
“It was so real. It was like I was really there.”
Jones stared at her. “How’s that even possible?”
“I don’t know. Somehow, the training stimulates the amygdala, so your most intense fear-based memories resurface.”
Jones shook his head and leaned back in his chair, as if trying to wrap his mind around the idea. In all their years in the business, no mindjacker had ever reported having relived a personal memory, unless chosen intentionally to prevent drowning and getting lost in another person’s mind.
“I don’t get it,” Jones said. “The Protectorate designed them templates that Psyche uses to develop the mind-invasion training, so they woulda told us if they’d developed something like that.”
Quinn shrugged. “Psyche has probably developed new and better programs on their own since then. And what better way to stop an invader than to access their most painful memories?”
“Yolanda and the other ops managers need to know about this. They need to warn people.”
“I’ll let her know and post on the forum. Just… don’t tell anyone the specifics, okay? Just say it was a bad memory.” She shook her head. “And Hatch… I’m telling you, he’s Mr. Perfect, his mind all neat and organized and filled with images of him working out and drinking turmeric shakes… and he turned out to be the most evil of all.” She glanced at his computer. “Let’s take a look at that data. Did we get enough?”
“I hope so. It took forever to get anything. That’s why we ran outta time.”
Quinn grimaced. “Sorry. I forget sometimes how hard it is for you, to sit there and wait for shit to go wrong.”
“Yup. We takin’ care of business while you jackers are busy playin’ around in someone else’s head.” He winked.
Quinn snickered. Jones inserted the data chip into his portable computer and began uploading it. “Yeah, we got plenty.”
While Jones began parsing the data and getting it ready to hand off to the Protectorate, Quinn took a few deep breaths and ordered herself another drink. Just when she got herself into a comfortably numb state, Jones’s brows went up again.
“What do you see?” she said.
“Fucken Black Jays, that’s what. Looks like Hatch mighta been tellin’ the truth.”
“Well, send it off. The sooner you do, the sooner we can get some answers.”
“It’s done.” Jones closed his computer. “Not to bring up a sore subject, but we still gotta talk about how we’re gonna deal with that other thing.”
Her stalker. “Right. Meet tomorrow night?”
Jones nodded and stood up. “I gotta get home. You alright?”
“I will be after one more of these.” Quinn pointed at her drink.
Jones hesitated. “You ain’t gonna make self-medicatin’ a habit, are ya?”
“No.”
It was true. Quinn would never let herself follow in her father’s footsteps.
Later, when she arrived at her building, Quinn half-drunkenly eyed her mailbox and decided to avoid it. She couldn’t take another hit to her brain’s fear centers that day. As she waited for the elevator, she felt a hand on her shoulder and spun around quickly, hands on her weapons.
It was Merritt.
“Jesus, girl,” she said, suddenly sober. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that.”
“I’m sorry,” Merritt said, her eyes wide. “I was just having fun!”
Quinn glanced at her watch. It was after nine. “What are you doing here so late? Shouldn’t you be off by now?”
“Work never ends,” Merritt said, tossing a braid over her shoulder. “How are you? Do you want to go get a drink?”
A drink was the last thing Quinn needed. “No… I can’t. I had a rough day and just want to go to bed.”
“Are you sure?” She looked disappointed, like she hoped Quinn would feel bad and change her mind. “Just one?”
“I can’t. Sorry.”
The elevator dinged and Quinn got in. She half-expected Merritt to follow her inside, but instead she just stood there, waving at Quinn until the doors shut.
When her phone rang the next morning, it took Quinn a few foggy, hungover moments to find it. Her head hurt a little.
“Hello?” she said, her voice thick and gravelly.
“Quinn,” came Yolanda’s businesslike voice.
“Good morning, Yolanda.”
“I hear you took quite a journey with Mr. Hatch yesterday.”
“That’s one way to put it. And pardon me for saying this, but what the fuck? When did Psyche develop targeted amygdala attacks? And how is that even possible?”
“We are looking into that. And before you ask, no, we didn’t know and then decide not to share that information with you and Jones just to make your life hard
er.”
Quinn frowned. She knew the barb was somewhat justified after the drunken warning she’d posted on the forum last night, but it annoyed her anyway. The training sessions with Remi were bad enough, but to face that in the field, when actual lives were on the line? Quinn would do just about anything to avoid repeating an experience like that, one she had no way of preparing for. And Yolanda, in her protected little Midtown life and her cushy management job, could never understand that.
“You have no idea what it’s like, Yolanda.”
“I asked you if you were ready. You said you were.”
Quinn gritted her teeth. “We got the data, didn’t we? Do you have an update, or did you just call to torture me?”
“I have an update. But before I tell you what it is, I want you to remember something. You’re a Tier One agent now, Quinn. One recommended by me. You may want to rethink how you conduct yourself on our forum. And in general.”
Quinn sighed. Yolanda had a point. She’d made headway building trust with Jones, but Yolanda? Quinn didn’t know if she would ever fully trust her, or the Protectorate. But trust or not, she wasn’t some underdog Tier Two apprentice anymore, trying to prove herself. She was part of the elite now, and paid accordingly, and she needed to start acting like it instead of like some rebellious, tattoo-laden Downtownie with a bad attitude.
“Loud and clear,” Quinn said. “Won’t happen again.”
“Good. We sorted through the data and found fragments of an attack by two men in black, corroborating Mr. Hatch’s story and what we found in our previous pass. Which means they’re targeting him. We also found an episodic memory of a meeting with other leaders in the utility business—”
“Yes! I remember seeing Carrie Anne Halstead from Saguaro Energy and that guy from El Diablo Water…”
“Hector Olmos.”
“Right. They’re all power players who have monopolies that have become extremely valuable since the drought. But that seems kind of suspicious. Why would they all meet?”
“Actually, they meet monthly and have for years, and this memory dates back to their last meeting.”
Mind Thief Page 6
