by Carrie Patel
“I’d intended to help you get them out of the station and into the Vineyard,” he said, already sounding defeated.
“Farrah can do that. She can’t distract Saavedra.”
Arnault made a noncommittal growl and tugged at the button on his collar.
“Meet us in the Vineyard after your date. Surely it can’t take you that long.” With that, she turned and left.
Malone went next to see the Revisionists. She’d considered explaining the situation when she and Farrah finally came for them that night. But goodwill was still a rare and precious commodity between them, and she saw an opportunity to win a few points with them by being forthright.
Anyway, it was the kind of thing Sundar would have done.
She shook the thought from her mind as she reached the holding cell.
The Revisionists, including Parsons, his injured toes now a smooth nub, were seated around the cell with stiff backs and tight frowns. Malone had given them the most private, comfortable space at her disposal, but no amount of comfort could wash the oily suggestion of captivity from the place. The cell was about the size of a cozy uptown apartment, some seven yards by ten yards, not including a private bathroom. Although it was really intended for one or two people, Malone had reasoned that the four Revisionists would be most comfortable if kept together. Another trick she’d learned from Sundar.
The room had four individual cots piled with all of the blankets and pillows the Revisionists could want; spotless, polished floors covered with soft, if worn, rugs; shelves stacked with reading materials; and even a homey layer of powder-blue paint along the walls, a rare decorative touch in the utilitarian Callum Station. All in all, it was barely smaller than the hideout where she and Arnault had discovered them.
Yet the only one of the group who seemed to have made himself at home was Dalton. He was reclining in a stuffed, high-backed chair, his hands clasped behind his head and one ankle crossed over a knee. “The good Chief Malone. What a pleasant surprise.”
“We need to talk,” Malone said.
Dalton stretched and gave a languorous yawn, as extravagantly relaxed as a guest who’d long overstayed his welcome. “As much as I’ve enjoyed my stay here, I really need a bit more time to unwind first.”
“We’re out of time,” Malone said.
Parsons, Cabral, and Macmillan looked at her with the wide, wary eyes of hunted animals. Dalton only shrugged.
“The farmers are striking,” Malone said. “The city’s under strict rations. Sato’s issuing an ultimatum.”
“Oh, another?” Dalton yawned again.
She ignored him and looked at the other three. “Double rations for any who identify looters, organized dissenters, or other enemies of Recoletta.”
Dalton snickered. “Six months ago, that would have included Sato and his collaborators, wouldn’t it?”
“What does this mean?” Cabral asked, looking between Parsons and Macmillan.
“It means we can’t keep up this pretense of detaining you as suspected vandals. We’ve got to move you some place less conspicuous.” She looked to Dalton. “And you’ve got to give me something on the rest of your collaborators.”
“Or what?” He laughed. “You’ll turn us in to Sato? You’ll tell him that you’ve been keeping us here under his nose, waiting for us to spill our intelligence exclusively to you?”
“Marcus,” Cabral hissed.
He looked over his shoulder at her. “Don’t be a pushover.” His head turned back to Malone. “The chief knows I’m right.”
“What I know,” Malone said, “is that you’re running out of options, and you’re about to run out of allies. Now. I’ll be back after midnight to move you to a more secure location. In the meantime, get some rest, and consider who you want to take your chances with – me or Sato.”
Dalton finally leaned forward, his feet sliding from their elevated perch and onto the ground. “Where are you taking us, Inspector?”
Malone backed toward the door, ignoring Dalton’s deepening scowl and instead watching the thoughtful frowns his three companions wore.
“Answer me, Malone,” Dalton said.
She turned and left, locking the door against his indignant curses.
Malone left Callum Station late in the afternoon. She didn’t want to give anyone reason to suspect she was staying late. Besides, a little time and space to clear her head seemed like just the thing.
She wandered deserted streets, heading vaguely in the direction of Turnbull Square. After a while, it became difficult to tell whether she was moving in circles or whether the passages had all begun to look the same.
Her options weren’t looking much better. The farmers had found Recoletta’s weak spot, and they were using what little means they had to dig in. Sato, in response, was tightening his chokehold on Recoletta. As for the Revisionists, Malone suspected they’d happily see their city torn apart and patched together a dozen times more before it resembled something they would deign to call “Recoletta.” The coalition forming in Madina was a greater mystery still, but its members wouldn’t be content, it seemed, until Recoletta was utterly broken.
And for her allies, Malone had Farrah, who was reliable if barely civil, and Arnault, who was neither. Malone sighed.
Before she knew it, the skylights were darkening, and she was, unsurprisingly, no closer to solving any of her riddles than she’d been at the start of her walk. And, she finally had to admit, she had no idea where she’d wandered.
By the time she got her bearings and returned to Callum Station, it was close to ten, and the place had all but cleared out. The surrounding streets, too, were as silent and still as usual. Farrah was in her office, cool and opaque behind her usual demeanor of merciless professionalism.
Farrah gave Malone the address and key to their eventual destination, which she’d gotten earlier from Arnault. “We’re going to stand out, traveling like this,” she said.
Malone privately agreed, but there was nothing to be done about it. “Once we get a half mile or so away from the station, it won’t matter. We’ll look like anyone else as long as we keep our heads down,” she said. The one convenience of Recoletta’s turbulent political situation was that everyone did their best to avoid notice.
Farrah didn’t look convinced. “Or they could bolt.”
It was a risk they had to take. “Right now, we’re the most reliable allies they’ve got.”
Farrah frowned, buttoning her jacket. “If they believe that, then what’s with the arsenal?”
Malone was checking the placement and fastenings of various holsters, belts, and accoutrements. A collapsible crowbar hung by her left thigh, not far from a lock pick set. Her trusty revolver was in place on her right hip, and a snub-nosed pistol was fastened around her calf just inside her right boot.
Malone fastened her overcoat down the front. “I like to leave my options open.”
“At least the knife around your thigh is inconspicuous. If anyone were to stop you, you’d look like you were up to something.”
“Anyone who knows me knows I’m always equipped. And anyone who actually tries to see what’s under my coat has bigger problems.”
Farrah shrugged and held up her hands. “Just remember it’s my head, too, Chief.”
Malone didn’t say anything, but her mind turned to Sundar. Farrah’s must have, too, because she didn’t say anything further.
Farrah and Malone proceeded quietly to the Revisionists’ cell. So far, the route was clear, and they could only hope it would stay that way for their return trip. Malone unlocked the door to the detention area in the east wing. The Revisionists’ cell was the only occupied unit in the area, so the corridor was silent. But when Malone unlocked and pushed open the door, the quick, furtive looks that passed between the Revisionists suggested that she had just interrupted a conversation.
Cabral stood as Malone and Farrah entered. “Time to go?”
Malone nodded, but Dalton shot them both a defiant glar
e. “She still hasn’t answered my question.”
Cabral rounded on him, exasperated and fearful. “For heaven’s sake, not now!”
“I want to know where the good inspector is taking us. How do we know it’s not to Sato?”
Time was ticking away. Arnault had structured his outing with Saavedra to give them a comfortable window to move, but Malone didn’t dare count on either of them – Arnault or Saavedra – being predictable. “If I were sending you to Sato, it wouldn’t be like this,” Malone said. “And I certainly wouldn’t have bothered to warn you this morning.”
Dalton pushed himself out of his chair and walked over to Malone in long, deliberate strides. “That’s a great story. Especially if you want to keep us talking.”
Parsons flashed Dalton an angry look. “We can talk about this later.”
“Are you all soft? She’s Sato’s chief of police. She’s already told us that her boss is doubling down on his hunt for our co-conspirators. Now, she’s making a big show of smuggling us to safety so that we’ll hand over the same information. What’s to say she won’t turn around and give it to Sato as soon as we cave?”
Malone had been afraid of something like that. She looked at the rest of them. “I don’t have time for this. You all know your chances. If you want to come, then circle up. Otherwise, stay here.”
Cabral stood up. “No. We stay together.”
Malone had been afraid of that, too. “Then get your friend moving.” Malone turned to Dalton again. He was standing six feet away, but it felt closer. “You may not believe that I want to help you, but I know you believe that I’m not going to tolerate any nonsense.” She flicked aside her cloak, showing him her revolver. “I’ll leave you dead in the street before I let you run out on me. A body is easy enough to explain these days.”
Dalton raised an eyebrow, calmly amused. “You’d gun down an innocent man, Inspector?”
“From where I’m standing, you’re not innocent.”
He smiled, showing teeth. “I was getting tired of this place, anyway.”
Malone was beginning to regret the plan, knowing how a man like Dalton could erode the group’s trust in her. Still, she couldn’t leave him, and for all she knew, Cabral would drown him out as the voice of reason. Sundar would have known how to handle him, and he would have been horrified to know that Malone was secretly hoping Dalton would give her an excuse to shoot him.
In any case, she didn’t have any more choice now than the Revisionists did.
Malone took a bundle of heavy coats and hats and tossed them to the Revisionists while Farrah briefed them on the need for secrecy and stealth. “Put these on, too.” Malone pulled two pairs of cuffs from her belt. “Parsons and Macmillan, you’re together. Dalton, you’ll be with Cabral.” A brief look of apprehension passed over Cabral’s face, but Malone could only hope that being cuffed to Cabral would keep Dalton in line.
“You’re the chief,” Dalton said. “You mean to tell me we can’t just walk out of here?”
“People would ask questions. And if any of them report to Sato, or if any of them talk to someone who reports to Sato, we’ll have problems.”
“That’s funny. I thought this was your station.”
Malone ignored the comment as she unlocked the cuffs. “Wrists out.”
She didn’t have to look at Dalton to hear the mischievous grin in his voice. “Not much of a promotion, was it?”
Malone cuffed their wrists together, hiding the metal bracelets under the long coat sleeves. Dalton rattled his chain peevishly, swinging Cabral’s arm with it. “You missed a spot, Inspector.”
“Hold her hand,” Malone said.
Dalton left his arm hanging, but Cabral obediently grabbed his hand, folding the chain into it. Parsons and Macmillan were, with some awkwardness, concentrating on keeping their hands close together without clasping them. They looked a little odd, but as focused as they were on keeping their hands together and staying in step, Malone couldn’t imagine them bolting. “You two in front,” she said to them. “Dalton, you and Cabral will walk behind them.”
Cabral stepped into position with Dalton trailing just beside her. Farrah had already moved out, motioning Parsons and Macmillan to follow. They filed out of the east wing’s detention hall, and Malone locked the door behind them. She could hear the steady, soft patter of Farrah’s footsteps ahead. So far, the coast was clear.
Unfortunately, she realized that she could also hear the rattle of chains ahead. Parsons and Macmillan were falling into a strange, faltering rhythm as they attempted to keep the chain between them steady. “Hold hands,” Malone whispered, her breath sharp against her throat. The two men didn’t acknowledge her, but they gave each other a probing, resigned look and clasped hands, tucking them as far up their sleeves as possible.
The clanking had stopped, but so had Farrah’s footsteps. The Revisionists were oblivious, and Malone darted ahead of them, holding her hand up for them to stop.
Up ahead, Farrah called out in an unnaturally loud voice, “Well, aren’t you here late, Inspector Gupta.”
Malone could just hear Gupta’s footsteps approaching. “Keeping busy, Farrah. What about you?”
Gupta was one of the dwindling holdovers from the Municipal Police in the days before Sato’s revolution. He’d been a competent enough larceny investigator in the old days, and Malone hadn’t found any reason since to doubt his loyalties or his aptitudes.
Still, she was increasingly leery of trusting anyone, and the fact that Gupta was here so late only raised her suspicions about him.
Malone waved the Revisionists back. The hall they were in continued straight for several yards, and Malone couldn’t unlock the detention area quietly enough. She urged them farther back and was pleased to see that they were at least all holding their chains to keep them quiet.
Up ahead, Farrah laughed. Coming from anyone else, it would have sounded nervous and artificial under the circumstances, but Farrah managed a mirthful, full-throated chuckle. “You know I practically live here.”
Malone and the others were backing away as quickly as they could without making noise, but the first bend in the tunnel was still a dozen yards away, and Gupta would hear them if he got much closer. She motioned for them to stop, hoping that Farrah could turn him around.
Around the corner at the other end of the hall, Gupta was proving receptive to Farrah’s merriment. “If we’re out this late on a Friday night, we might as well get some fun out of it. I’m just finishing up. What do you say we wrap up here and grab a drink?”
“I may be a while,” Farrah said. “But you should get out of here. While you can.”
Gupta laughed, and Malone turned the Revisionists so that they were huddled together with their backs to the end of the hall. Malone stood facing them and ready to intercept Gupta if he passed their hall.
“You know, I’ve still got a few other things I can work on, and I might as well since I’m here,” Gupta said. “Why don’t you, ah, come get me when you’re done? No sense in walking home by yourself at a time like this. To your real home, I mean.”
“It’s your Friday night,” Farrah said. “If you really want to spend it in your office, I won’t stop you.”
“Excellent! Then it’s a date.”
Before Malone could breathe a sigh of relief, the sudden clopping of Gupta’s boots drew nearer. Farrah took a swift, skidding step to intercept him.
“Isn’t your office the other way?” she asked. “I won’t know where to find you if you go wandering off.”
“Oh, just following up on some records. Older stuff, to be honest.” Gupta’s careful, deliberate tone made Malone suspect that he was making it up as he went along.
“Olivia Saavedra’s office is closer. Why don’t you try that office first?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“She’s practically pulled half of the records into her office. I told her she can’t expect me to keep anyone out if she’s using the place for public
storage.” Farrah crossed her arms, rocking back on her hips. “Not that she hasn’t made enough of a spectacle of the place.”
“I, ah, have no idea what you mean.”
Farrah sighed. “Don’t be coy. Everyone knows what I mean.”
Gupta sputtered and bridled. “Miss Sullivan, I assure you, I’ve been far too busy to stand around gawking at Miss Saavedra.”
The edge between condescension and reassurance in Farrah’s voice was so fine that even Malone couldn’t tell the difference. “Of course you have, but you’re about the only one. Frankly, I’ve heard more than enough about it.”
“Ha, I know what you mean,” he said quickly. “Shameful, really. The way everyone talks about it, you’d think we’ve got nothing but time on our hands. But what can you do?”
“Anyway, don’t let me keep you,” Farrah said.
“Right. You’d best get back to work, I expect. Then I’ll see you later.” Gupta’s final inflection left it somewhere between a question and a statement.
“Yeah.”
He walked away, and a few seconds later, Farrah appeared around the corner, wafting them toward her with swift, urgent motions.
They set off again, following Farrah at a distance. Reaching a staircase near the east wing exit, Malone and the Revisionists waited while Farrah climbed the stairs to see how things looked ahead. She returned less than a minute later, shaking her head. “There’s a guard rotation right outside the door. There’s no room to hide, and I don’t know those guys. We’ll have to try the main surface exit.”
Dalton opened his mouth, ready to protest, but Cabral yanked him along with a little more zest than Malone would have expected from the woman.
The corridors around them yawned, wide and tempting. It would have been easy to bolt ahead, but Malone didn’t dare take the risk. She kept the Revisionists moving at a normal, steady pace so that if anyone did stumble upon them, the situation wouldn’t look any more suspicious than it already did.
They finally reached the main hall, lit from above by trenches of flame set high in the walls. Farrah hurried ahead to check the entrance and the probable guards, but Malone held up a hand to kept the Revisionists steady.
