by Jan Thompson
She hadn’t anticipated her canvas shoes slipping on the zinc roof.
Seven stitches on her left leg later, she had learned her lesson—that was, she hated the doctor’s office.
Yeah, twenty-three years and many more falls, stitches, and broken bones later, she knew that had been the wrong lesson.
“Let’s pray for you.” Cayson reached for Stella’s good hand.
They bowed their heads. Cayson said a quick but heartfelt prayer that God would heal Stella’s wounds.
“And God of the universe, we pray this in the strong Name of Jesus. Amen.”
Dmitri’s amen was particularly loud.
Silently, Stella added her own prayers for the two men’s safety as they traveled back to Atlanta. Her mind was too foggy to think of anything else requiring God’s help at this time. She was sure there were many dangers they all needed protection from, but all she wanted to do now was rest.
Sleep. Get well.
Cayson started clearing the table. “May I take your plate?”
When Stella looked down, she realized her plate was completely empty. She didn’t remember eating any of her breakfast.
“Looks like you liked your toast and cheese omelet,” Cayson said.
I had toast and an omelet?
“I think I’ll go lie down,” she said.
Dmitri pointed to the sunroom down the hall from the dining room. “The couch there is very comfortable. You also have a view of the sky.”
Stella nodded.
“Mirabella will be here if you need anything,” Dmitri added.
Stella nodded again.
Thirty-One
Moscow Mechanics was a misnomer. The establishment in downtown Decatur, Georgia, was not an auto repair shop nor did anyone from Russia work there. In fact, it was run by a Taiwanese businessman from Vancouver who loved Bollywood musicals and Italian opera.
In the sparsely furnished lobby, Cayson watched the tearful reunion between his cousin Leland and her mentor, Dmitri. But the hugs were short lived. They had little time to spare for a cup of tea, and everyone knew it.
Still, Cayson wished he had gotten a proper hug from Leland.
Isn’t she happy to see her favorite cousin?
On the main floor of the office complex, Dmitri and Leland led Cayson through a maze of cluttered workstations to a back hallway where an old elevator opened its doors to welcome the dead—
“Oh sorry.” Cayson grimaced.
Leland was tapping and swiping her tablet computer, ignoring him.
“Huh?” Dmitri didn’t seem to be aware of his thoughts.
Of course.
Not even Icarus was privy to Cayson’s thoughts. Unless he expressed them in words, Icarus could not read his mind.
Only God could read his mind.
“I didn’t mean to be grim,” Cayson said.
“About what?” Dmitri pushed the elevator button.
“Being grim. I mean—well, yes, I meant it. We’re all already dead.”
Dmitri said nothing.
“Never mind.”
Dmitri invited him to enter the elevator first. Stepping in, Dmitri pushed a button.
Cayson’s eyes blurred. He winced. Which button was that?
“Are we going up to heaven?” Cayson leaned against the steel wall.
“We’d better get Icarus out of your head before your gibberish turns into a sonnet or something.”
To which Cayson began to hum.
“You were fine yesterday,” Dmitri added.
“And this morning. Is it still day?”
“I could slap you upside of the head,” Dmitri offered. “That could either reboot Icarus or…kill you.”
“How shall I choose?” Cayson’s hands began to shake. “Why are my hands shaking?”
“The smell and fear of death,” Leland finally said.
Cayson clenched his fists. “Why is this elevator so slow?”
“Would you rather it free-fall?” Dmitri asked.
Cayson felt dizzy.
Dmitri reached for him. “Relax, friend. It’s not the end of the world.”
“But it could be the end of me.”
“And another will take your place.”
“Not helping!” Cayson waved him off. He moaned again.
“Motion sickness?” Dmitri asked.
“Why is this elevator so slow?” Cayson slid down to the floor. “How far do we have to go? Such things I do not know.”
Dmitri chuckled. “Wow. I didn’t know Icarus is a poet.”
“Icarus?”
The elevator door opened.
Mole Rat.
Cayson sprung to his feet, wobbled a bit, and grabbed Dmitri’s arm. “He just called me Mole Rat. Or did he?”
Dmitri didn’t respond.
“Did you hear me?” Cayson didn’t care if he sounded desperate.
Dmitri put a finger on his lips.
Cayson nodded.
Dmitri led him down a brightly lit hallway. He walked slowly, as if by walking any faster, he would alert the duality of Icarus.
Duality?
In a moment of lucidity, Cayson frowned.
Perhaps Icarus was talking to someone else named Mole Rat. It was impossible for him to be Mole Rat. They had established that Mole Rat was in the employ of Molyneux.
Dmitri glanced at Cayson. Nodded.
Cayson nodded back, though he had zero idea why Dmitri had nodded at him.
“Icarus, what is my name?” Cayson suddenly asked.
Chameleon.
“Icarus is going bonkers,” Cayson concluded.
He thought about his recent stay at VenomLabs on the other side of metro Atlanta in the city of Marietta.
What could Reyes have possibly done to him while he had been under the knife?
Had they done what had been in his interest?
Or had VenomLabs tweaked his implants? Perhaps they had added software into the Icarus unit?
Could that have been how the armed drones had found them in the forest outside Dahlonega?
If that had been the case, by his presence, Cayson had endangered an entire off-the-grid community of people minding their own business, plus Dmitri and his housekeeper and—
Stella.
We have to warn her!
Thirty-Two
Stella hadn’t heard a thing. Not a door opening, not footsteps. Nothing.
She had been taking a nap in the living room, resting her arm and cheekbone.
The housekeeper had gone shopping for food.
The dogs and cats came and went. But they were polite and respectfully quiet.
Stella smelled him first. A combination of pot and alcohol.
When she opened her eyes, she saw a Colt in his hand. She had to assume it was loaded since it was pointed at her. She had seen too many people pointing weapons at her lately.
But this was a new one.
Osman Reyes of the famed VenomLabs.
A scientist with a PhD in robotics from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology.
And now what? A traitor extraordinaire?
“Dr. Reyes, what brings you to town?” Stella spoke calmly, regretting that she had left her Glock… Where?
She could not feel her Glock anywhere on her person. Her waist holster felt empty.
She tried to move. Her head spun.
Whoa. Why am I feeling groggy?
All she had done was take a nap.
Now she felt as though she had been drugged.
Reyes didn’t seem to care what she felt.
He waved that Colt in her face. “Dmitri has some papers that belong to me.”
“Papers?” Stella hid her surprise that Reyes had asked for paper. “Digital paper?”
“Real paper. Dmitri is old school.”
“He wrote something down with a pen?” I don’t have it. Dmitri didn’t say… “Are you sure it’s here?”
“Don’t mess with me.”
It was then that Stella saw a trick
le of liquid coming out his nose. Thick and dark.
Reyes wiped it on the back of his hand. Stared at the red smear. His hand started to shake.
“Let me give you one word: evidence.” Angry voice. “I must have it.”
“Let me give you another word: treason.”
Before Reyes could respond, Stella’s Krava Maga kicked in. She knocked the Colt out of Reyes’s hand, went for his vital organs, threw him onto the couch, and pinned him there.
To kill him.
Or be killed.
She knew she had popped out at least one stitch on her arm.
The pain seared.
But Reyes wasn’t finished. He flailed his arms, nails scratching Stella.
Before she could restrain Reyes’s arms, blood began to ooze out of his eyes and ears. He screamed.
His eyes rolled back, and his entire head exploded, splattering warm brain matter, fluid, and blood all over Stella, just as the only phone in the farmhouse rang.
Thirty-Three
“It’s Osman Reyes,” Cayson said on the speakerphone.
“Yeah, I know.” Stella kept wiping her face with a clean kitchen towel she had found.
The police were on their way. When the phone had rung, Stella picked it up, but she had put Cayson on hold while she called 911.
“And you know that—how?” Cayson asked.
“He was here.” Stella wiped gunk and blood off her arms. “He still is, but let’s just say he’s non-responsive.”
“You knocked him out?” Cayson’s voice suddenly turned shrill. “We called you too late! I wish you had come with us. If anything happened to you—”
“Nothing happened to me.” Nothing too serious, anyway. Two busted stitches. A ruined borrowed shirt. That sort of thing.
“Thank God.”
“Yes, He protected me and kept me safe.” Stella was glad the phone was an old model and didn’t have video.
If Cayson had seen her with her bloodied blouse, he’d probably freak out.
And why did she care?
I do care.
“Dmitri wants to talk to you,” Cayson said.
Stella waited until she heard Dmitri. He was wheezing.
“Has Mirabella returned?” he asked.
“No. She’s gone to the grocery store.” Stella wondered if the thirty-something-year-old housekeeper was more than that to Dmitri.
“She’s not answering her phone.”
“Do you want me to go look for her?” Stella asked.
“Do you know where the grocery store is?”
“She told me before she left. The local PD is on their way. I’ll talk to them about Mirabella.”
“No.” A pause. Then: “Miss Evans?”
“Stella.”
“Stella, I need you to find Mirabella and take her to a safe house.”
“I don’t know this area—”
“My drones will help you.”
“Why didn’t they track down Mirabella?”
“I don’t know. I hope she didn’t turn them off.”
“Why would she…” A thousand things percolated in Stella’s mind. “Tell me Mirabella is not a cyborg.”
Dmitri laughed. “No, no. She’s my daughter, but she doesn’t know that. Don’t tell her.”
“Ah, I don’t need to get into domestic squabbles.”
“Her mother and I… She died because of me.”
“And you don’t want your daughter to know.”
His voice hardened. “Maria was a spy. She used me!”
“You said she’s dead. Let the dead rest, Dmitri.”
“What? You’re counseling me now?” Dmitri snapped.
The doorbell rang.
“I think the local PD is here.” Stella turned. “I’ll ask them to help me find Mirabella.”
Silence. Then: “Stella, do not open the door.”
“It’s not the police, is it?”
“It’s Aspasia and her men.”
“Still looking for Ulysses, is she?” Stella backtracked toward the back of the house even though she suspected the entire farm was probably surrounded.
“She probably thinks Ulysses is me,” Dmitri said. “Go to the kitchen and into the cellar. In the cellar is a door to a tunnel. The tunnel comes out on the other side of the farm. I will ask Tyrone to meet you there.”
The doorbell rang again.
“Go, Stella—”
An explosion rocked the house.
Thirty-Four
Barefoot, Stella ran for her life through the hallway lined with a blur of paintings and mirrors, entering the small farmhouse kitchen where pots, pans, and broken plates had scattered all over the floor from the explosion.
Among cracks on the walls, a pantry door gaped at her, ripped open at the hinges.
“Where is the cellar?” Stella asked, but the phone was silent.
The entire house bathed in silence.
She wasn’t sure what that explosion had been, but since her phone stopped working, she guessed that Aspasia had deployed some sort of localized e-bomb. Low-level electromagnetic pulses had probably taken out the electronics in this house.
Not that Reyes hadn’t already disabled the security system prior to the arrival of the new enemies.
She heard the distinct shuffling of feet and the sounds of metal rubbing against heavy armor, and knew she was running out of time.
God, I need You now!
Where is the cellar?
Her eyes swept the kitchen bathed in the afternoon sunlight coming in through a couple of rectangular windows.
Instinctively, she reached for her waist holster again.
Empty.
Where is the cellar?
Click.
She spun around. Part of a wall moved. An arm popped out and waved to her.
“In here!” Mirabella opened the door wider.
Stella made a dash for it, and Mirabella shut the door just as a barrage of gunfire hit the door on the other side.
“Is this the cellar?” Stella asked, out of breath.
“Well, yeah. Dmitri calls it whatever he wants.”
It was a small space, hardly standing height. Stella’s five-eight frame bent over, and she could feel the strain in her spine as she ran through the tunnel, with Mirabella leading the way.
She held a flashlight in front of her. “The electricity is not working. EMP, probably.”
She knows.
“When did you get back?” Stella asked.
“Minutes ago. The drones were offline. I figured something was wrong.” Mirabella frowned. “The bad news is that Dmitri’s favorite ice cream is in the van.”
Does she know who Dmitri really is to her?
“He tried to contact you.” Stella paused to catch her breath. Her arm hurt. Even in the dim light, she could see that it was bleeding around her stitches.
“I figured.”
“If this is the tunnel he spoke of, then Tyrone is waiting for us at the other end.”
Mirabella nodded. “I know. We’ve rehearsed this.”
“Then why did Dmitri tell me to take you to this tunnel?”
“He worries about me a lot.”
“Why do you think?” As soon as the question left her lips, Stella realized this was simply the wrong time to talk about life-changing family matters.
Mirabella stopped at the end of the tunnel, where a rung ladder, rusty in places, went straight up toward a circular door.
She turned toward Stella. “Because fathers worry about their daughters.”
“So you know.”
“I’ve known since the week after he hired me to cook for him and manage his drones.”
“Ah, in that order.”
“A man’s got to eat.” Mirabella laughed. “He’s actually a good cook himself. He doesn’t need me. I’m only here because I remind him of Mother.”
“You knew her before she died?”
“I also know who killed her, but I can’t tell Dmitri.” Mirabella put one boot
on the bottom rung of the ladder. She looked up. “Come on, Tyrone. Open the door!”
Distant noises from the ground above them startled both of them. The tremor dislodged bits of earth and dirt, sprinkling debris over them.
“Stand back!” Mirabella leapt off the bottom rung of the ladder.
The two women took cover as the hatch lifted at the top of the ladder. Shadowy daylight streamed into the tunnel.
“Mirabella!” It was Tyrone’s voice. “Let’s go.”
Thirty-Five
Osman Reyes’s real name was indeed Osman Reyes. Three PhDs, two professorships, five patents pending—and he was still as dead as a headless doornail.
His accolades didn’t matter as much as the fact that he had been one of a dozen VenomLabs employees who had been compromised by Molyneux in a project that had far-reaching consequences too numerous to count.
“Best to leave it to the Feds,” Cayson said aloud.
He glanced around the Moscow Mechanics computer room and realized that Stella Evans wasn’t there.
With me.
Dmitri’s Atlanta associates had taken Stella to a twenty-four-hour private clinic to have her arm looked at. She should be back soon.
Cayson wished they had more time to spend together in a non-working environment. It had been three years and they still didn’t have any downtime.
At some point in the last three years, Stella had mentioned that she had been trying to leave the FBI.
Where would she go?
What would she do?
Cayson wanted her by his side…
For life.
A waving hand in front of his eyes broke his muse.
“Stop daydreaming, cuz.” Leland shook her head. “Stella is going to be fine.”
“How do you know what I was thinking?”
Leland shrugged. “We’ve been cousins since I was born. I know when you’re worried.”
“I’m not worried worried.”
“My only concern is that they took Stella to a private clinic. All medical records are logged.” Leland walked back to her workstation two chairs away.
Her statement gave Cayson pause.
