by Hope Anika
The Vault. Please go now. Take your gun.
What the hell was going on?
“Fuck,” he said and began to type into his phone.
Alive and well. On my way to play the hero—again. Smell you later.
He pulled his father’s ancient Magnum out of the glove box, checked the clip and slid it into the waistband of his jeans. Then he started his truck and headed downtown.
*****
Field work.
It was all Wanda had wanted for the last seven months.
To operate within the shadows, nothing but the faintest of echoes as she worked to uncover vast conspiracies and thwart evil.
All that she was suddenly, bewitchingly transformed into all that she’d never been: courageous and pitiless, resilient and strong, unflinching in the face of death.
Her imaginings were glorious—if a little silly—sharply drawn and wildly colored, like the comic books she’d stolen from her brother when she was a child. Stories of men with blades for fingers and women who laid waste to entire armies.
Reality, however, was quite different.
There were no encrypted messages, no men in dark suits, no gadget-filled pens or souped-up sports cars. There was not even a secret handshake. Other than the underground passageway Ash had shown her—which was, Wanda silently admitted, pretty awesome—there was nothing at all covert about this job she’d been given.
You are a babysitter.
Nothing more, nothing less.
Not that Wanda wasn’t grateful. Having Ash trust her with this, no matter how diminutive it seemed, was a step forward, and something Charlie wouldn’t have done. No, Charlie had only ever seen Wanda as one of his “broken birds” as Wylie called them, and to Charlie, she would always be damaged.
But she had healed long ago; it was time to fly.
Ash seemed to understand this. She looked at Wanda as though she believed Wanda could do anything, which was unlike how anyone had ever looked at Wanda. Even Charlie, who’d liked to parrot the idea, hadn’t looked at her as though it was truly possible. Ash did. More, Ash offered her the opportunity to prove it.
Which was how Wanda had found herself ensconced in the Firm’s downtown safe house, the Vault, a small, seventies-era basement apartment with two barred windows and a thick steel door. It was a dark, sparse place with a small living room, a tiny kitchen, and an even tinier bathroom. Wall to wall shag carpeting the color of rust that reeked of cigarettes and must; flower-covered furniture and walls wrapped in rose print wallpaper.
That Wanda had taken the time and energy to install two small cameras just outside the entryway—cleverly hidden in the drooping, ancient light fixture and the broken doorbell—was rather comical, as the only thing she’d seen approach the apartment was an astoundingly fat calico cat. But that effort wouldn’t go to waste; it was a safe house, after all. Surely at some point the cameras would come in handy.
Until then there was an ancient TV that apparently only played Andy Griffith reruns, and a deck of cards. Since Wanda didn’t know any card games, Andy was all she wrote.
But the girl beside her didn’t seem to mind.
Eva Pierce was not, Wanda suspected, an average American teenager. Not that Wanda—having never been an American teenager—would know, but the girl seemed...unusual.
At first, Wanda had thought it was simply her beauty. Eva was almost incandescently beautiful, her bone structure so pure and even she seemed inhuman, an exquisite statue carved by a master’s hand. Her skin was pale, flawless ivory; her hair was a riot of curls, as black as a raven’s wing. Eyes the color of amber, ringed in a startling circle of brilliant green; her mouth a perfect red bow.
But after an hour in the girl’s presence, Wanda had realized it wasn’t simply the girl’s stunning looks that set her apart. It was something else entirely.
Something almost...otherworldly.
Eva perched next to her like a delicate, mysterious bird, colorful and serene and inexplicably fascinating. Wanda found herself stealing glances at the girl, and each time Eva’s beauty was like a burst of rain over parched land. She was silent and still, and she seemed to radiate peace, as if her existence was wholly harmonious with the vast and archaic world around her. Untroubled and content, even while in the eye of the storm.
A trait Wanda admired—and somewhat resented—in a twelve-year-old girl.
She hadn’t spoken since Ash left, her nose buried in The Hunger Games. In the hour that had followed, Wanda set up the camera feed, watched two episodes of Andy Griffith and wished she had more experience in talking to teenagers.
To anyone.
But such was not the case, and it wasn’t until Eva set aside her book, turned to her and said, “You worship Kali,” that Wanda found herself suddenly acknowledged.
“I do,” Wanda replied, surprised. “How did you know?”
“Your necklace.” Eva peered at the pendant that hung from a slender silver chain around Wanda’s neck. “It’s the Kali Yantra.”
“Yes.”
“Wearing the symbol is said to have spiritual and magical power. Do you believe that to be true?”
Wanda fingered the pendant and stared at the girl, uncertain if she was being mocked. “What we believe, we make true.”
“Kali is the Goddess of Time, Creation, Destruction and Power, isn’t she? The Divine Mother. She is loving and fierce and terrible, as we all must be.”
Wanda could only stare at the girl.
“Where in India do you come from?” Eva asked.
Alarm flared through Wanda. Why would she want to know that?
“I’m sorry.” Eva looked away. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
Wanda shook her head. “It’s alright.”
“But you’re afraid.”
The paranoia and terror that slept, ever-present, in the deepest recesses of Wanda’s heart bared its teeth and growled. But Eva meant no harm, had no connection to the life Wanda had escaped.
“Kashmir,” Wanda replied after a moment, and a pang echoed through her as she thought of her home with its vast mountains and deep, winding river, a place lost to her decades earlier. “But my family fled long ago.”
“Because you’re Hindu?”
“Yes.” Wanda turned to look at her. “How do you know such things?”
The girl shrugged. “My father encouraged me to learn the world.”
Learn the world. As if such a thing were possible. She is only twelve.
“Do you live with your family?” Eva asked, shooting her an uncertain glance.
“No,” Wanda replied softly.
“You’re alone,” the girl said with a nod.
A look of such sad understanding shaped her features that Wanda reached out and laid a gentle hand on Eva’s arm. “None of us are truly alone.”
But Eva only shook her head, and the look hardened, like wet clay turning to stone. “That’s just a lie we choose to believe.”
Wanda wanted to argue, but then she thought of the family who’d betrayed her and the friends who’d aided them, and part of her knew there was truth in Eva’s words. To Wanda’s parents, she’d been nothing more than a pawn to be utilized for their own benefit, groomed to be the bride of a stranger old enough to be her father, and nothing she’d ever done or said or become had been able to change that fate. Nothing. Not even those she’d trusted most had stood with her. No, only running, fleeing beneath the cover of night and endangering her life to escape had altered her destiny.
“Do you know where Joe is?” Eva asked. “He should be back by now.”
Grateful for the change of subject, Wanda shook her head. “I don’t. I’m sorry.”
Joe Pierce was Eva’s father. A tall, slender man with benign features and a head of thick, coffee-brown hair, which Wanda knew because she’d watched his exchange with Ash that morning covertly from her tiny office, where the copy paper and internal server were stored. She hadn’t meant to spy—well, maybe a little—but Joe’s intensity h
ad caught her attention. He didn’t look like a degenerate gambler who would borrow money from one of the local loan sharks, and in doing so, put his child’s life in danger, but Wanda knew looks were deceiving, and people were rarely what they appeared or professed to be.
Wylie, after all, was a prime example of that.
She scowled. Why did she always have to think of him? The man wouldn’t even look at her, and he was nothing like he appeared. Tall, broad and hard with muscle—as though that strength could be leaned upon, when that was the farthest thing from the truth—his features hawkish but handsome—like his father, as if he was anything like Charlie—his smile charming and confident and reassuring—as if he did anything for anyone other than himself.
No, looks were always deceiving, and Joseph Pierce had proven that true when he’d looked at Ash with fire in his unremarkable brown eyes and demanded she do everything in her power to keep Eva safe. He hadn’t been asking—he’d been telling, and even though Ash hadn’t appreciated being ordered around (Wanda could relate), she’d promised they would keep Eva safe until he could get his debt paid off.
It was, Wanda reflected, an odd case. Usually they dealt with insurance fraud and cheating spouses and people who’d jumped their bail—even a few missing dogs—but never anything like this. And while it was rather exciting, it was a little unsettling as well. Because what happened if the bad guys actually came for Eva?
Clearly, Ash didn’t think they would—or she never would have left Wanda alone with the girl. No, unlike Wylie, Ash took care of business. Ash was tough in a way Wanda had never witnessed in a woman. Strong and smart and capable; Ash didn’t rely on anyone. And she didn’t seem to fear anything.
Something Wanda very much admired.
“You can do anything,” Ash had told her, more than once. “You’ve just got to want to.”
As if it were so simple.
“I’m worried,” Eva admitted and looked out the tiny, barred window across from them. The sun sent a handful of dying rays slicing into the room, highlighting the gloom. “I can’t feel him.”
Wanda didn’t know what to say to that, so she said nothing. On the TV, another Andy Griffith began.
“I think he’s dead,” the girl said.
Wanda started. “No. We can—”
A sudden pounding on the Vault’s steel door drowned out her words, and Wanda’s gaze flew to the screen of her laptop.
Men in dark suits.
She blinked in disbelief. Three of them, as slick and chilling as those she’d seen on TV, standing before the door as the fat calico watched from the sidewalk.
Boom, boom, boom!
Wanda jumped. And then she froze.
“They’re here for me,” Eva said, and Wanda turned to look at her, because there was no fear in her voice, just resignation.
Acceptance.
“That door is a foot thick,” Wanda told her. “They won’t get through.”
But even as she said those words, one of the men was removing a small, circular silver device and attaching it to the door. She didn’t recognize what it was; she didn’t have to. Their intent was clear.
“A bomb,” Eva said calmly.
Adrenaline rocketed through Wanda, and she leapt to her feet. She grabbed her laptop and her backpack and snagged Eva’s hand. “Come on!”
They ran through the tiny apartment, into the small bedroom. The large wardrobe that was built into the wall was slightly ajar, and Wanda swung it open, revealing a thick steel door that accessed the underground passageway, a narrow tunnel that led beneath the building and exited nearly three blocks away. A dark, lightless, shaft that smelled of dust and dirt and death.
When Ash had shown her the tunnel, part of Wanda had been secretly thrilled. The other part had been horrified. What could possibly necessitate such a thing?
Nothing, she’d assured herself. Just Plan B.
More fool you, she thought.
Ka-boom!
The explosion was sudden and deafening; her ears rang. She pulled Eva to the floor and covered the girl as best she could, the beat of her heart like a hollow drum in her skull. Terror arced through her; her knees went weak. The floor beneath them shook violently. The building groaned. Ceiling tile fell like confetti.
Eva squirmed beneath her. “Wanda, we have to go.”
Go.
Wanda pushed herself to her feet, her ears still ringing. She shoved open the heavy steel door and stumbled through, hauling Eva behind her. Just inside sat a collection of flashlights. She grabbed one and tossed another to Eva. Then she pulled the wardrobe back into place, and slammed the door shut, securing it with a thick deadbolt.
In her chest, her heart threatened to explode.
A bomb. A bomb! Men in black, behind them, chasing them—
She began to pray under her breath. Then she started down the tunnel.
It wasn’t big, only six by six, lined by aging wooden timbers and sagging pine boards. There was a faint breeze and a cool dampness. The tunnel went left, then right, then left again, and she tried to not give into the temptation to run, because no matter how bright their flashlights were, they were rushing into infinite darkness, yawning and vast in spite of its tiny size, and somehow horrifying.
But what was behind them, though...that was worse.
“I don’t like it in here,” Eva said, far too calmly.
“You’re not alone,” Wanda muttered.
Left, then right. Eva moved steadily beside her, and Wanda’s skull pounded with teeth-rattling intensity. She felt...muted somehow, as if what was happening wasn’t really happening. Like a fantasy or a dream...but her skin was covered in goose flesh and the taste of dirt was thick on her tongue. She could hear her breathing, harsh and uneven.
Although it was no more than ten minutes—fifteen at most—it felt like hours stretched by as they hurried toward daylight. When they reached the door at the other end of the tunnel, Wanda fumbled with the slab of wood that held it shut, her hands trembling, her joints weak.
She swung open the door, nearly blinded by the sudden light. Spots danced like fireflies in her vision. Eva was nearly on top of her as they set aside the flashlights and stepped out into the vacant alleyway where the tunnel led.
A line of garbage dumpsters greeted them. Several ravens sat on their dented lids, clucking like amused spectators. Daylight was beginning to fade, and shadows laced the alley as they crept carefully to the end of the narrow lane and peered out into the street.
The tunnel exited into an older part of the city, where most of the buildings were vacant or used only as storage. Only a handful of vehicles lined the street, and there weren’t any people in sight. For a long moment, Wanda just stared out at the emptiness, her blood roaring in her head.
What now?
They couldn’t return for her car; that would be asinine. She had her laptop and her phone, but neither would be smart or particularly safe to use at the moment. And she had only a handful of cash in addition to her debit card—which they couldn’t use, because as soon as they did, they could be tracked.
Field work! What had she been thinking? Idiot!
“Where are we going?” Eva asked, and again Wanda was struck by how unperturbed she sounded. As if she ran from men in black every day.
But that couldn’t be true; she was just a child. A child Wanda was now solely responsible for.
Terror whispered through her. She could not fail in this. She could not—
Focus! Because there was no time for hysteria. They had to get somewhere safe. That was the first priority.
She looked around, nausea churning through her, and realized abruptly where she was. The memory of her first night in the city returned to slap her brutally in the face, and she flinched.
No. Don’t want to go back.
But there was little choice. They needed somewhere under the radar to contact Ash. Somewhere safe.
“Come,” she said to Eva and stepped out into the street.
&
nbsp; “Where?” Eva asked, following.
“We have a bus to catch.”
CHAPTER
-3-
“Cyanide.”
Ash stared at her neighbor in disbelief. “Cyanide?”
“Oh, yes.” Glory stared down at the bodies on Ash’s living room floor. “There’s no mistaking it; the white foam is a dead giveaway.”
Huh.
“Well, my What The Fuck list for today is now complete.” Ash pinched the bridge of her nose. “Fantastic.”
“They must have had capsules in their teeth,” Glory mused, her faded green eyes narrow on the scene. “And once there was no escape, they utilized them.”
Ash could only shake her head. Somewhere along the line, she’d stumbled into a bad B movie. One filled with wild-eyed men in black, a grim prophecy of the coming apocalypse, and, apparently, cold war poison. Oh, and death. Lots of death.
In my living room. Awesome.
Seriously. Because the last two craptastic months hadn’t been enough. Because burying Charlie and inheriting the Firm and having the financial livelihood of four people dumped on her like wet cement had still not squared her with the Universe.
Surprise!
And what of Ruslan and Butch? Neither was answering their phone, and the laptop was junk. Ash had no idea where they were—it’d looked like a warehouse of some sort, but she couldn’t be certain—and there wasn’t much anyone could do without a location, not even the cops.
Which was why she hadn’t told the cops.
Not about Ruslan or Butch or Eva Pierce. And she didn’t plan to—not until she understood what was happening. She was giving Ruslan and Butch another half an hour to appear, and if they hadn’t shown up by then...well, she had thirty minutes to figure out how to cross that bridge.
Worse, Wanda wasn’t answering her cell, either, and Ash could have slapped herself—seriously—for leaving Wanda and Eva at the Firm’s safe house—the Vault—alone...but who would have expected men armed with guns and poison to come looking?
Just who the hell was Joseph Pierce?
Because he damn sure wasn’t who he’d claimed to be. That was for frigging sure.
