No need to make her skittish. Sometimes your mark caught on for no reason—instinct, or their subconscious working overtime.
She pulled out another book on the subway. Chinese history. But she didn’t turn a page, just stared at it and swayed, obviously exhausted. She was too thin. Someone needed to hold her down and feed her cheeseburgers. Was she a ketchup person? Mustard?
I want to know. The itching got worse, and so did a nameless tension. His own instincts twitched. Most people didn’t pay any damn attention to what their senses were telling them, even without little invaders jacking them up into the red. Lots of the agent training was just common sense, tuning in, paying attention.
Look harder. Look again.
There. He found the source of the nagging. Brown and brown, black baseball cap, hooded sweatshirt, eleven o’clock. Sweating a little, through the rain-dew and condensation hanging on everyone. The man’s gaze kept sliding over Holly from top to toe, flicking away and returning far too many times.
It was like watching a hungry cat eye a distracted mouse. He added the man up, didn’t like the answer he got. If she looked up, stared him down or made the effort to appear a little less tired and oblivious, he might move on to another target. As it was, she was broadcasting weakness, and predators were at the water hole.
She telegraphed her stop, tucking away the book and stretching, wincing as if it hurt. When she got off the train Mr. Black Cap did, too. Reese swore internally, drifting behind them. Footsore and exhausted, she might as well have had a neon Rob Me sign over her head.
Why was Reese speeding up a little? Why were his hands tensing and his pulse picking up? How would he explain it if—
She turned sharply into the same tiny store she had last time, maybe on impulse. It gave him the opening he needed, and Black Cap never knew what hit him. A silent, ghosting dash, a low “Hey...” to grab Black Cap’s attention, quick shot to the knee, another to the throat to keep him quiet. Crunch of bone breaking—it was just the man’s arm, and he was lucky Reese didn’t want to kill him.
What the hell am I doing?
A handy alley loomed nearby; it couldn’t have been more perfect if he’d planned it. Propping the jackass next to an overflowing Dumpster didn’t take long. The pain would wake him up soon, but by then Holly would be home safe and sound. Anything else wasn’t Reese’s concern.
Bad part of town. Should get her out of here, somewhere safer. How exactly to do it was tricky, but he’d already achieved primary contact, so...
He halted at the alley’s mouth, flattening himself against the right-hand side. Tried to get his pulse back down. He could almost hear Bronson’s dry, uninterested tone.
Emotional noise is also a variable, agent.
Well, fine. There was noise. Now he had to decide what to do about it. How likely was it that he could keep her hidden? Just like kiping a blank passport from stock or hoarding cash, the medkit he kept taped inside a heating duct and the little hidey-holes, potential or actual, in different cities.
You trained a dog to dig, and he went and dug. Simple, really. They had to have expected it.
So what was he going to do? She might not even be interested. What would she believe? He wasn’t much of a honeypot agent, preferring the more direct methods. There might have been Romeos in the program, but he wasn’t one of them.
Familiar footsteps. He went completely still, gapping his mouth and slowing his pulse. The wind had picked up a little; he caught a breath of that elusive, mouthwatering smell. A shadow against the streetlight shine outside, her wet hair dripping on her coat, stuffing a bottle of ibuprofen into her purse.
Of course. She’d been on her feet for hours, running around taking orders from idiots.
She sniffed, wiping at her nose with the back of her hand, an impatient movement. She should really have an umbrella. A better raincoat. Something.
And you’re going to get right on that, huh, soldier?
Even the rain wasn’t keeping him down. At all. The one time he needed to be thinking with his big head, and he couldn’t manage it.
He kept back, just waiting until she got inside her building. He couldn’t follow her home every day. They’d send him out as soon as he cleared his next blood draw; the itching was already going down, which meant the little buggers in his bloodstream had eaten whatever he’d been dosed with.
That was another worry. Hi, I’ve been mutated. They injected me with a virus that changed some of my chromosomes, I’m starving, and you smell like cupcakes. Yeah, that would go over really well.
He checked the street and stepped into her building. Just the same, her smell on her mailbox, stealthy sounds in the walls. A baby crying somewhere, and a tang of smoke. Someone had burned dinner.
He touched the mailbox’s closed, secretive door again, quelled the urge to go up the stairs and decided that was enough for one night.
* * *
Her face was a mask, and Three took care to keep it that way.
The windowless office surrounded her, familiar from its short vinyl carpet to the sleek black electronics and Bronson’s chair off center, pushed up against his desk. Beside Three, gazing at the screen bolted to the wall, was the stolid, middle-aged, rancid man himself. It had something to do with the garbage he poured into his body on a regular basis, congealed grease masquerading as food. Halitosis, his sweat full of cortisol and the poisons his body couldn’t metabolize, all contributing to a cloud-haze of nastiness.
Three leaned back slightly, away from his reek. How many inches would give her a little relief from the smell and still keep him within striking distance? If, of course, she had a reason to disobey her orders.
It was a puzzle she was no closer to solving, for all her careful thinking. Why did she even have the capacity to contemplate disobedience? They hadn’t answered that in training.
On the screen, the video feed showed a blond man, at ease in a hard metal chair from the debrief room. Lean and fit, a half smile as he stared offscreen, his blue eyes direct and sunny. His hair was mussed, his jacket unzipped, and everything about him screamed sloppy.
Except for that gleam in the back of his eyes and the careful placement of his hands. Loose on the table, but ready. This, then, was Eight.
She had never seen his face before.
From offscreen, Bronson’s voice. This interrogation masquerading as a debrief was two weeks old, judging by the date at the bottom. “You went offgrid for four days.”
The man shrugged. “Suppose I can’t say I had business.”
“Smart-ass,” Bronson breathed next to her. She considered telling him to be quiet. Analysis was rendered more difficult with his bloviating commentary.
She didn’t, though. Three concentrated, a faint line appearing between her eyebrows. Something about that face seemed...familiar.
It was probably a neurological ghost. They’d warned her about that when she woke up from the induction, that she would think she remembered...things. Such memories were only phantoms, having no bearing on the present. Her file was classified, they told her, at her own request. She had signed the papers and agreed. It was for science, and for her country—two things Three was told she had believed in enough to sign herself over to the program lock, stock and amnesia.
The interrogation continued on-screen. Three watched, ignoring Bronson’s commentary. Why did the blond man look so familiar?
“You’re in deep over this, Eight. If you didn’t have a reason—”
“Look, you train us to do this. Even on home ground. What kind of reason can I give you? Seriously? Look at my file. You know I’m considered impulsive. Maybe I just started walking and a direction looked good.”
Three’s head began to pound. The headaches were growing more frequent, 20 percent more this week. She was supposed to report any chronic pain, any digesti
ve disturbance, any amenorrhea. The last wasn’t strictly their business, but she obeyed.
“I’m going to have to put you on standby if you keep this up.”
“I was just practicing, sir. Come on.” That winning, wide smile. Eight probably thought himself very charming.
That was, however, conjecture, and insupportable. The pain intensified, the inside of her skull shivering, and Three’s heartrate rose slightly. Not that the man beside her would notice.
Her analysis was...troubling. Eight was showing emotional noise. He had dropped offgrid for some purpose, and didn’t particularly care what punishment would be meted out. He could very easily disappear again, that slight smirk said; it was indeed what the male agents were trained for.
Not Three. Her talents were...otherwise. Although a certain facility with the standard regimen was necessary for her to analyze, correlate, and predict what the male agents would do.
“Wanted to put him on standby.” Bronson coughed, a deep, phlegmy sound. His chances of surviving more than ten years, with his current weight and habits, were comfortingly low. “But there was a situation in Eastern Europe, so—”
“Ukraine,” she corrected, quietly. “Eighty-nine percent chance of success, given mission parameters.”
“And with this?”
“The same.” She calculated again, frowning. The machine in her head returned the same answer. “That particular operation is low risk for impairment, given his profile.”
“Well, at least that’s good news.”
The pain in her head eased a little. On-screen, Eight tensed slightly, and leaned forward, as if he was thinking what Trinity thought every time Bronson invaded the space normally judged personal in their society.
“Sir? Did you change your cologne?”
Bronson, sounding irritated. “What?”
“Never mind.” A flicker of unguarded expression, and Three’s breath caught in her throat. What was that? He looked almost...interested? Intrigued? It was there and gone so quickly a regular wouldn’t notice, but she had.
She was still trying to decipher the expression when her head gave another flare of pain. A small dinging noise interrupted her—Bronson’s cell phone, an alarm.
“Damn.” He coughed again, hit the pause button, checked the phone. “It’s checkup time for Six. Put the tapes away and finish the paperwork.”
“Yes, sir,” she murmured. The sharp twisting in her brain eased as Bronson moved away.
“Good girl, Three.” He slammed the door on his way out, and she wondered what the crawling all over her skin was. An allergic reaction, perhaps? It eased as well. She stood for a few moments, staring at the screen, where Eight had been caught blinking. With his eyes closed he looked almost serene, and her hand rose, surprising her.
A fingertip touched the screen, right at the bridge of his nose. A shadow of crookedness—perhaps an old break. No doubt he received sympathy from the woman he had hidden away. What was her name?
Tracy Moritz. There were already contingencies in place. Civilian entanglements were frowned upon.
Her throat was oddly constricted. Three’s hand dropped back to her side. The screen blanked into power-saving mode.
How long had she been standing here? She shook her head, and a thought occurred to her.
Three. That’s not a name.
Curiosity, then. Perhaps, since she was a mystery even to herself, she could choose a name?
“Trinity.” There. That would do. Her lips shaped the word, and her headache eased all at once.
The strangeness in her throat did not, but she set it aside to concentrate on work.
* * *
“I’m getting too old for this crap.” Holly leaned back a little, stretching. At least she’d been able to get some dry toast down this morning. Her weight was holding steady. Maybe she wasn’t going to be called to the big rodeo in the sky just yet.
“I hear that.” Barb cracked her gum, grabbed another saltshaker. Thin fall sunlight streamed through the window, liquid gold showing every crack and chip in the tables underneath. The street steamed, and everyone was either irritated by the sudden glare or doped up on yellow light. Sunshine drove everyone crazy. “Any word on Angie?”
“Ginny’s going by today to check on her.”
Barb snorted. “Well, that’s no help.”
“She’s just young.” And stupid. We were all stupid once. Growing out of the stupidity was painful. Sometimes it took a hard jolt to kick-start the process. Sometimes it took a double punch, one-two, like coming home from a doctor’s office and hearing your husband say I want a divorce as though he was telling you what was for dinner.
“So are you.” Barb filled the shaker, screwed the cap back on with a savage twist and cracked it down like a shot glass.
“Ha. I feel pretty damn creaky.” Holly’s hands moved on their own, wrapping silverware. Fork, knife, spoon, crease the napkin, the gummed band nice and tight.
“You’re just a baby. What about Mystery Man?” With a bright avid smile, Barb picked up another saltshaker. Her fingers lingered.
“Haven’t seen him.” Not since Friday, at least. Stop asking.
“Shame. I could use one of those tips.”
“We all could.” Fork, knife, spoon. A roll, a tap, the gummed band.
“What did you say his name was?”
Reese. “Can’t remember.”
“You think he’ll be back?”
“Probably not.” Hope not. Did she?
That was the trouble. Life was uncertainty. She should have gone back to the doctor once or twice, to get some sort of idea exactly how long she had, but what was the point? Better just to vanish.
“Shame.”
“If he does, you can pour him coffee and make awkward conversation.” Another band, smoothed down. Just like a pillowcase. Right after the divorce she’d done housekeeping in the Five Seasons downtown; it was a relief not to think. To move so steadily you didn’t have to brood about anything. All during her father’s final illness she’d perfected that skill to a fine art.
By now she was probably at Olympic level in that sport. One day at a time. She’d read a “Surviving Cancer” book from the library once, and it was full of little gems like that. Dad had refused to read any of the literature they gave him. He’d retreated into himself like a snail into a shell, and the military hadn’t done a damn thing to help. All those years he gave to his country, and they threw him out like trash.
Don’t think about that. He did what he had to do.
“Deal.” Barb grinned, arranging the shakers on a tray, and hefted the whole thing with a single, oddly graceful movement. The bell at the front door tinkled, and Holly suppressed a sigh. Someone would show up right in the middle of prep time.
Barb laughed, swinging away. “Speak of the devil.”
Holly’s head snapped up, the glare of the sun on wet pavement and crawling-past cars turning to shutterclicks as she blinked.
Reese stood in the flood of light, droplets of water caught in his dark hair. His broad shoulders were tight, his face shadowed, and his jeans were wet to the knee, as if he’d run through puddles or had a losing battle with a street corner–surfing cab. Another sigh worked its way up, got caught in her chest, and she looked down at the silverware tub again.
“Well, hello again, stranger.” Barb took over, familiar patter tripping off her tongue. The saltshakers were perilously close to tipping off the tray, she was in such a hurry. “Your usual?”
“That’s okay.” Nice, polite. “I’ll sit up there. Hi, Holly.”
She glanced up, and it was no use. He was heading right for her.
Suddenly clumsy, it took her twice as long to get the next set of silverware wrapped up. She stared down into the tub as if it held gold dust. She h
ad to dredge up a smile and be pleasant, and somehow palm him off onto Barb.
The very thought made her tired all over again. “Hi, Reese. Coffee?”
“Sure.” Did he have to sound so pleased? He moved almost as if he was military, but the hair was wrong. Civilian hair, Dad had called it. “I always wondered how that happened.”
She finished another set. She was thinking about her father more and more these days. “What?”
“The little paper things. I wondered how they got around the silverware.”
So did I, until I found out. Now I’ve done a million of them. “Me, too.” Why did she want to smile? When she stole a glance at him, he’d settled on the stool to her left, not too close. Not too far away, either. “You left in a hurry the other night.”
“You didn’t put the tip behind the register, did you?”
A laugh surprised her, and she dropped the last set into the box of finished settings. “No. Brenda was really happy with it. Thank you.”
“Good.” He turned the coffee cup at his place over, set it precisely on its paper coaster. “Sorry for leaving so fast. I realized what time it was, had to catch the train.”
Well, that made sense. She waved the apology away and picked up the box, bracing it on her hip. “It was pretty late. Hey, Barb will take care of you—”
“I’m just here for coffee. And I wanted to ask you something.”
“Again?”
He paused for the barest second, studying her expression. An answering smile tilted up the corners of his mouth, and she caught a breath of cologne. Had he dressed up? No, it was just the same as usual—navy-blue T-shirt and jeans, that dark nondescript canvas jacket with a high collar. The same watch, and his bare, ringless fingers. Not even a betraying divot on the left third finger that would shout on the prowl.
I’m not looking, she told herself. I don’t care.
“Yeah, again. Unless you’re busy.”
“You can see they’re beating down the doors.” She let her gaze swing critically over the empty tables. Traffic outside whispered and rumbled. In the kitchen, there was a hiss of steam and Doug turned the radio up, some country song about a woman in need wailing its reedy guitar over the static. Was there anything she could say that was polite yet brisk, or even just neutral?
Agent Zero Page 5
