Agent Zero

by Lilith Saintcrow

  “Reese?” Someone roofied me? “What. The hell.” She licked her cracked lips, wished she hadn’t, because his gaze dropped to her mouth. “Where—”

  “We’re in a hotel. Safe for the moment.”

  For the moment? Her brain kicked into gear, everything inside her skull suddenly functioning the way it should. “For the moment?”

  “Yeah. Look, Holly...” He sank down on the bed beside her. “You’re going to have a little trouble with this.”

  “With what?” She tested her arms and legs, warily. They worked. Not the best they ever had, but they still worked. She wasn’t in a hospital, so she hadn’t collapsed. Which meant there were things to be done. Had she passed out at their coffee date, or—

  Figure that out later. Right now, get up and get dressed. “I...oh, God, what day is it? I’ve got to get to work.”

  His mouth firmed up, became a straight line. “You can’t go back there.”

  “I what?” Great, Holly. Start screaming. That’ll work wonders.

  “It’s dangerous. They had a file on you—”

  “A file? Dangerous? What?” She pushed herself up on her elbows and froze.

  There was nothing on under her T-shirt, and she was in this bed, and the only person around was him.

  He didn’t seem to notice her sudden stillness. “I told you I was in security. Which is sort of true. I work for some...dangerous people. They tried to kill me.”

  “Uh.” Her brain worked this around a little bit. “What?”

  “They scooped you off the street, drugged you and probably questioned you about me. You didn’t know anything, but I’ve hung around you once too often, I guess.”

  “Hung around...oh, damn, I knew it. I knew it.” She flopped back down on the bed. The pillows were squooshed and a little damp. How much had she sweated? “I knew those tips weren’t for real!”

  “I’m sorry. They...these people don’t play nice, Holly. I’m not sure why they wanted to retire me, but—”

  Oh, hell no. “Retire you? What exactly do you do for a living, Reese with a first name nobody uses, huh?”

  He was looking at her oddly, one eyebrow lifted, somewhere between puzzled and unsurprised. “Holly—”

  “Get away from me. I’m calling the cops.” She lunged for the bedside table, but his hand closed around her wrist.

  He pushed her back down, and she was either painfully weak or he was freakishly strong. “You want them to find you? Want to get scooped up and drugged again, or just shot? Those guys in your apartment were going to suffocate you on your little futon there, and you wouldn’t have put up any fight. It would’ve been easy with the drugs in your system.”

  Drugs? Futon? How does he know I... She stared at him. His fingers were warm and oddly familiar.

  “You want to call the cops? Fine. The instant you do, I’m gone, and I’m your best chance of staying alive.” He reached over to the night table. Under the fugly 1970s amber-glass lamp, there was a chunky, cheap phone and two manila folders. “But look at these first. They’re target files. One’s for you.” He took a deep breath. “The other one’s for me. Look at them, and if you still want to call the cops, fine.” The bed squeaked as he levered himself up, and he tossed the folders into her lap. “We’re safe for probably another twelve hours here. If you’re with me, I’ll keep you alive. I suggest you do some reading and then take a shower.”

  Holly realized her mouth was hanging open. She shut it, looked down at the folders.

  Embossed on the covers, down on the lower right corner, was something she’d seen a million times on all Dad’s paperwork. Even the refusals for treatment, and the settlement papers, saying they didn’t believe the wartime chemicals had given him the big C—PROPERTY of US ARMY.

  And there was another stamp, this one full of terrifying meaning to any military kid.

  CLASSIFIED.

  Her heart started to hammer. Her palms were wet.

  Dear God. What the hell is happening to me?

  * * *

  She opened the first one with tentative fingers, and something inside Reese relaxed a fraction. Not very much, because he’d expected her to have trouble with believing him. He was a stranger, and he’d just told her something off the unbelievable charts. Not to mention she was recovering from a benzo overdose—and how could he tell her that?

  I can lick your sweat and taste the drug in it. I can hear your heartbeat. I can go straight up a brick wall if I have to, and your entire life has exploded because I thought you smelled good. Better than good, and you’re the last person to deserve anything like this.

  Goddamn it.

  She blinked at the contents. He couldn’t tell if it was his file or hers. The thought that she might be reading his made his skin tighten all over, in a not entirely unpleasant way.

  “What is this?” She sounded baffled. Maybe he should have fed her first, or given her more water.

  She looked up, those smoky eyes huge, her eyelashes matted, her cheeks flushed with remaining fever heat, and his mouth went dry.

  My God. She’s so pretty.

  She was, in fact, beautiful. He hadn’t seen it before, or had he? Was it just that smell, drenching him, working inside his skin? Thin and tired-looking, she was still gorgeous. Maybe he could just admit it to himself now.

  If not for the sourness of the drug tinting her scent, he could think she was sitting there all mussed and flushed after an entirely different chain of events.

  He cleared his throat. “It’s, ah, a target file. Name, vitals, other information. Photos so you can zero them. The other’s stuff background, so you can...anticipate.”

  “Anticipate.” She looked back down at the papers in her lap. “Target.”

  “Yeah.” Euphemisms. Trade talk to make it easier to do nasty things for your goddamn country.

  Lies.

  “My God.” The flush paled, and he had to stop looking at that mouth of hers. His focus was slipping. Was it degradation, or was it the persistent pressure below the belt? It was hard to think, looking at her sitting in a bed. Especially when she was wearing one of his shirts, and he knew exactly what was under it. He’d had to search, really, because there could have been a telltale in her clothes, and besides, she’d been thrashing with the aftereffects of overdose. Sweated right through her jeans.

  “What do you really do? No, wait.” She shook her head, pushing the first file away. It fell open, and he saw it was hers. “Don’t tell me. Or you’ll have to kill me, right?”

  “No.” The whole point of this was to keep you alive. I didn’t even blow town, not that you’d know how easy it would have been. “Look, I was—”

  “Shut up.” She flipped the second file open, almost angrily. Stared down at it. “Oh.”

  Was she seeing the CV? His service record? “I went into the Army because the only other place to go was back into a state home or halfway house.” The words were ashes. “Then there was the program. It turned me into...what I am. I did my job, served my country.”

  “Good for you.” Pearly little teeth sank into her lower lip, and her paleness was alarming. She was damn close to transparent. “Why do they...who are they, exactly?”

  He doubted she really wanted to know. “Are you going to call the cops?” Deliberately harsh. “Because if you are, I am not going to waste time explaining. If you’re not, you should probably take a shower, and we can get something to eat. You’re hungry—you’ll fall over if you don’t get something in you soon.”

  He saw the betraying little twitch. Her right hand, probably tempted to reach for the phone. Waited, trying not to breathe, because every time he inhaled it was like getting a mouthful of something too good to be true.

  Then she looked up at him, blinking rapidly. Those marvelous, smoky blue eyes brimmed with tears, but
she swallowed, hard. Her shoulders came up a little, as if she was used to settling burdens on them. “One of these for me, right. And one for you. They...did someone try to...”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why? What did you do?”

  “I don’t know.” Don’t care, either. But he probably should. Were they winding the program down? Were other agents being liquidated, or just him? Nothing had seemed off until the tomboy nurse had locked him in that room—and the fact that there had only been a flimsy lock on the door meant that they’d expected whatever was pumped in through the vents to disable him in a matter of seconds, right? “I followed my goddamn orders. The only thing I did that they didn’t tell me to was ask you to coffee.”

  As soon as it was out of his mouth, he regretted it.

  A single tear brimmed over. She wiped it away, roughly, with the back of one hand. Stared at him as if he was something slimy that had just crawled out from under a rock.

  Well, he was, wasn’t he. And even now she was trying to understand, instead of being screaming-furious at him. Christ. Too smart for her own good, and too soft, as well. She didn’t deserve this.

  “Is this some sort of joke?” Hoarse now. She shook her head, violently. “No, it isn’t. Because it’s not funny, and there’s no reason...there’s jobs on here I didn’t even remember applying for. God. And the...oh, God. Medical... God. God.”

  “Holly—” What could he say? He’d already stuck his foot—hell, his entire leg—in his mouth, and kept chewing.

  “No. Just...no.” She scrambled out of the bed, and the sight of those long, bare dancer’s legs damn near starved his brain of blood. He even stepped toward her, expecting her to have a little trouble walking, but she grabbed the wall and hauled herself along with grim determination. “Stay away from me!” Even her bare feet were pretty, but the cheap avocado shag carpet here probably made her skin crawl.

  She deserved so much better. The bathroom door was another flimsy piece of work; she slammed it and spent a few seconds fiddling with the lock. He let her, listening intently.

  The shower turned on, and he heard her hitching breath. The sobs went right through him, and he spread his hand against the door, because even though he knew it wasn’t a good idea to go in there he wanted to.

  Badly.

  He didn’t. If she was ambulatory, she needed food and fluids. Just because they were probably safe here for another twelve hours wasn’t a good reason to stay.

  Oh, quit lying to yourself, Reese. You want her dependent on you, because she’s safest that way. And you’re a monster, because deep down you’re feeling a little grateful, aren’t you. Now that she doesn’t have any choice.

  His nape itched, again. If he started going downhill, she wouldn’t stand a chance of surviving. He had to hope the little invaders were still happy and comfortable swimming around inside him.

  Reese turned on his heel, surveying the room. He’d have to clean up and get her out of here.

  No matter what she thought of him.

  * * *

  It felt like a hangover. At least washing the dried sweat and guck off her skin helped steady her. The headache receded a little, but her bones felt rickety. Like they’d turn to rubber at any moment and spill her onto the indifferently cleaned tile floor.

  It made her long for her own bathroom, spick-and-span and familiar. Unfortunately, the fog inside her head was clearing, and there were a couple things standing out like rocks on a seashore.

  Things like two twisted, dark lumps on her living room floor. Like Reese’s voice, calm and firm. You’re with me. You’re safe. Reese’s dark eyes hot and distant as he sliced open a long scar on the outside of his hip, digging out what looked like a little silver bullet.

  And a woman’s voice. We either keep subject until she metabolizes, or we return her. We watch, and see if Six bites... I calculate ten percent odds he may.

  Collateral.

  As in damage.

  The water never got very hot, but at least there was soap and the towels weren’t mildewed. The flyspecked mirror showed her a pale, trembling woman with dark circles under her eyes, and even though her entire body ached she could tell nothing...that he hadn’t...

  At least she hadn’t been...molested. Not that it mattered, but it was nice to know.

  Her mouth tasted like a rancid subway car and she kept having to grab at the counter or the wall to stay upright. She probably looked drunk.

  There, set neatly on the peeling yellow counter, was her toothbrush and a tiny minitube of Crest, the same flavor she had at home. And her comb—black plastic, wide toothed, the chips on it familiar as her own hands.

  She had a foggy memory of Reese packing a backpack while she sat on her futon and tried not to pass out.

  You’re with me...you’re safe.

  The image of him sitting at his regular table, clutching a cup of cold coffee and staring at her, wouldn’t go away either. The thought that maybe he’d planned this, or...but how would he get all that information?

  Just thinking about the target file made her feel sick. Lists of jobs she’d applied for, her last five places of employment, Phillip’s name and an address that was probably current, pictures of her—including her state ID photo. You couldn’t get that unless you were official. And medical records, Dr. Gregory’s name and address, and copies of scrawls that were his notes on her medical charts. Who would bother to go to this trouble? Sure, considering how he tipped, Reese was maybe rich...but what rich guy would go to these lengths and make a fake file on himself, too?

  On the other hand, she’d been drugged. Could she trust anything she remembered, even?

  The last thing she remembered with any certainty was being bundled into that black van. And that was thought provoking, wasn’t it? Because she’d seen the van twice before, while she was walking. Hadn’t paid attention, but she was sure she’d seen it. Or its twin. That was the trouble with black vans, they all looked the same.

  The thing about working food service was, you saw a lot of people. You got a feel for them. After Phillip, she’d sworn never to be taken in again. Reese was a little...weird...but he’d seemed pretty...well, nonthreatening. Even asking her out to coffee had been shy, and awkward, and completely note perfect.

  The people I work for aren’t very nice.

  I work security.

  They tried to kill me.

  She had nothing but the towel and the T-shirt to wear, so she wrapped herself tightly in the towel and closed her eyes, her hand curling around the doorknob. She thumbed the lock, twisted and took a deep breath.

  When I open my eyes, I’ll be in my own bedroom. I’ll be looking into the kitchen, and the first thing I’m going to do is go to the kitchen sink and get that big green cup Ginny gave me for St. Patty’s, and I’m going to drink so much water I’ll have to go straight back to the bathroom. Then I’ll call Tony and tell him I can’t come in today because I’m busy having a nervous breakdown. I’ll go to the bodega, get a newspaper and start looking for a new job just in case.

  It was a great plan. She swept the door open and stepped out, her feet not finding hardwood but slightly oily carpet. When she opened her eyes, she saw a run-down, seedy motel room with horrible pineapple-colored curtains and a bed that looked as though it had been used as a trampoline. Her backpack was on the twisted-up comforter, and peeking out of its top was a familiar battered paperback.

  A copy of Come, Love, Sleep.

  Now she remembered blindly grabbing it, and everything inside her turned over with a sick thump.

  It’s true. It’s all true.

  Reese was nowhere in sight.

  * * *

  It was, Trinity thought, rather instructive to see just how frantic people could become once the window for effective action had passed and they were playing catch-up. There
were more efficient ways to catch a rogue operative, certainly.

  She had simply decided to follow Bronson’s ill-tempered order and cease informing him of such things.

  An interesting quandary: Did one obey the letter or the spirit of the order? Such a consideration had never been of overriding import before. Each scenario presented to her before the last forty-eight hours had been clear-cut in the extreme. Or had she simply not seen the complexities under the surface?

  As it was, Bronson placed her in the office, at the smaller, glass-topped desk, and returned with a box of file folders. “Look through these, start calculating,” was all he said, before retreating to his own desk and getting on the phone to continue requisitioning resources, in between barking sharp orders at Caldwell whenever that unhappy major returned to this nerve center. It was Caldwell who’d brought more military assets into the equation, which was wasted effort, since any program agent would know to stay away from any installation—but Trinity didn’t say a word. Instead, she leafed through Division’s files on the program participants.

  At least, the agents. The ones who had survived infection and had not been subject to induction. Was her own file somewhere in this box of red-jacketed statistics and numbers?

  Perhaps. There was no reason to hurry, though. The longer she could keep Bronson unaware of her current mental state, the better.

  And just what is your current mental state?

  Six’s file was familiar; she had already calculated the percentages Bronson wanted. He wasn’t even asking for the important ones.

  The door banged open, but it was just Caldwell, out of breath.

  Bronson settled back in his chair. “Christ, knock next time, will you?”

  “It’s Eight,” Caldwell panted, sweat on his forehead turning his blond high-and-tight a little darker. His fatigues, usually ironed and starched to the picture of perfection, had suffered a bit.

  Trinity’s own clothes needed laundering. Bronson seemed to have forgotten her requirements.