Shadows to Light (Shadows of Justice 5)

by Black, Regan

  If the two pulling the dead stunt were still out after five minutes, Jameson would pat them down and call Callahan for a clean up team.

  "Stay put," Jameson ordered, striding toward the diagnostic area. "Should've left this to Mira," he muttered.

  "Mira? Wait! You know Mira? You've got to take me to her," the guy demanded.

  "What you've got super hearing?"

  "If you're with Mira, I'm on your side!"

  "Quiet," Jameson ordered, rushing back to his prisoner. He was screwing this up beyond all recognition tonight. He'd be lucky if Callahan didn't bust him down a rank. Or two. "You can chat it up at any volume later," he whispered. "You alert anyone that we're here and I'll just up the body count." Jameson wanted to smack the guy, but didn't trust the enforcer not to turn the contact to his advantage. "Don't make me gag you."

  "Is she close? Is she in trouble?"

  Jameson took two steps back, withdrew his gun and fired a rubber bullet into the guy's belly. The groaning he could ignore until his job was complete.

  In the diagnostic area, Jameson noted the microscope Callahan had tagged was already gone. Another day with time to kill, Jameson could wonder about the whys and hows of that.

  He looked around assessing and rejecting various hiding places for the info Callahan wanted.

  Hard copies. Even twenty years ago, they were nearly obsolete. Still, Callahan insisted hardcopies were around here somewhere.

  Jameson turned at the sound of movement behind him and swore. The living enforcer had managed to get to his feet and shuffle to the doorway. "You're a real pain in the ass. Why shouldn't I kill you?"

  "On your side." The guy's battle to breathe properly mollified Jameson a bit. "You're after the list of patients with a specific genetic marker, right?"

  Jameson ignored him and went back to his search. If the situation was reversed he'd use every ploy to distract and eventually disarm his captor.

  "I already have it." The prisoner dipped his chin toward his chest. "Found it taped to the bottom of the desk drawer. It's yours if you take me to Mira."

  "It's mine regardless," Jameson drew his weapon and took a step forward.

  The prisoner lurched, falling into Jameson and knocking the gun away. But he was ready for the dirty tactics this time and fought back accordingly with a stomp to the guy's cuffed feet. When the prisoner maneuvered so his cuffed hands were in front of his body, Jameson danced out of his reach. Remembering how Mira subdued the two enforcers, he put all he had into a blow to the neck, hoping he'd get lucky and at least slow the guy down.

  It only bought him a few seconds but it was enough to secure his weapon and snatch the report from the prisoner's inner jacket pocket.

  Callahan had given him a specific name and Jameson verified it was on the report. So the prisoner wasn't lying, but he wasn't about to forgive and release.

  "Take me to Mira," the enforcer pleaded as Jameson locked him in a supply closet.

  "Give me a name. Maybe I'll bring her to you."

  "I have information she needs."

  "Name."

  "Luke Conrad. If you leave me here, I'll be dead before you get back."

  "Then you would've done it yourself like your buddies."

  "No." The prisoner threw himself against the door. "With two implants offline they'll think I'm captured. Which is what they want. If they find me alive, alone, they'll kill me for failing. Which is what you don't want."

  "Some days suck like that." He had to get down to the lab and Mira. "If you're quiet maybe they won't find you."

  "God help me. You're an idiot." The prisoner swore and threw himself into the door again. "Tell her where I am. Let her decide."

  Jameson wasn't about to risk Mira or jeopardize the primary task here. Using the card Callahan gave him for this job, he keyed in the coded message about his progress. He followed that with a second message requesting a clean up team.

  As he waited for the stealth disc to make him invisible, he listened at the door for any nonsense from the prisoner. Since the mission was compartmentalized for security, he didn't know who Callahan would send to extract the bodies and prisoner. He tried not to care, tried not to think about how the prisoner knew Mira or why he didn't kill himself when his partners did.

  He tried not to think about what he didn't know, what he didn't need to know, to do his job. And then he tried to blend in to the tunnel wall when he heard footsteps rushing up behind him.

  Conrad. Naturally. Racing unerringly for the lab. Of course the man who was supposedly only 'posing' as an enforcer found a way out of typically foolproof cuffs.

  Jameson fell in silently behind him, berating himself for being so damned stupid. Ever since he spotted Mira, he was acting like a newbie fresh out of basic. Why couldn't he keep his head on the job when she was around? If he wasn't ready to leap to her defense, he was ready to leap with her into bed.

  Not like him – at all – and not doing his career or her situation any good. When he got her out of the lab, preferably without Conrad, he promised himself they would have a real conversation about what the hell was going on around here.

  He felt the temperature change as he entered the part of the tunnel under the building that housed the lab. Just when he thought Luke would barrel in and blow everything in his desperate bid to find Mira, Jameson watched him put down the guard who'd seen him coming without so much as a whimper from the man. Whatever they taught these enforcers, Jameson was starting to feel like Special Forces had been shorted some excellent advisors.

  He hung back, eager to see what the unstoppable jerk would do next and more than ready to intervene and protect Mira.

  * * *

  Mira stood frozen in the space behind the door, not quite trusting the stealth suit, even though it had gotten her this far. As she understood it, the technology was meant to make the most of shadows and contours. The bright lights and gleaming surfaces of the lab felt like so many spotlights ready to reveal her exact position if not her intention.

  But it wasn't just the uncertainty of her suit that kept her still, it was the particular odor of research. The bite of antiseptic with an undercurrent of coppery blood and chemical preservatives. It was seeing her father.

  She couldn't recall the last time she'd personally laid eyes on the man. Sure they exchanged holograms occasionally and once or twice a year he'd reach out through email. But in person?

  That would have been the Christmas before she'd signed on with the Army medical unit. The last Christmas she'd had a home of her own. Her mother had made one of the rare trips away from the order to visit and help her pack.

  She barely stifled the sob that wanted to break free. Oh, she hadn't expected this emotional punch or the responding need clawing at her gut. Her father followed his passion for health and helping others. He'd taught her to always do the same.

  Yet here she stood swamped with a little girl's memories of how much fun they'd had when he was between assignments and how much she'd missed him when he was working.

  They'd come to a mutual understanding a few years ago, and more importantly, reached a point of mutual respect. What was wrong with her that seeing him now upset her so?

  She struggled to turn off her emotions, to dial in on the clinical details, to focus on the point of this delicate and dangerous task.

  He was limping and clearly in pain. How odd. She'd always believed he could heal anything or anyone. Ejecting a bullet from his own leg shouldn't pose much of a challenge, and yet it seemed as though he hadn't bothered with it.

  From her vantage point, he didn't show signs of infection. His shoulders slumped and his skin looked pale, but that could be blamed as much on the season and lab environment as a physical ailment.

  Something was off, besides the bullet in his leg, and to get a glimpse of the project, her real purpose here, she was going to have to move.

  She'd almost worked up the nerve when he looked directly at her. More accurately, through her. He squinted and as
he reached to clean his glasses, she tiptoed a few paces away.

  He didn't follow her movements, still studying the place she'd been. She turned, relieved to see she'd been blocking a progress board of some kind.

  There was all the information she needed for Callahan. If she'd only had the fortitude to turn around, she might already be back safe with Jameson.

  She stared at the diagrams and notations, felt her chin drop at the audacity and scope of the design.

  This was no advancement in troop protection. Nothing to benefit the general population. This formula had the potential to be the worst kind of menace.

  He'd created an anticoagulant agent intended for use in a bullet.

  She stared at her father and back to the formula. It was absolutely brilliant. It was utterly incomprehensible. This was the man hell bent on saving people, on using whatever gift or knowledge he had at his disposal to alleviate pain and suffering. He didn't care about class, rank, or skin color. He barely cared about payment.

  The man who developed a stealth suit, heads up contacts, and countless advancements small and large to protect Soldiers in the field was not the type of man who created a horrific bio-weapon.

  He shuffled away from his perch at the lab table, pausing at another counter to peer into a bank of petri dishes.

  She didn't like the way he moved. The lame leg dragged a bit. That really should have been healed by now. She glanced at the formula and wondered if Montalbano had shot him with his own modified bullet. Daddy, what have you done? He turned her direction again and she wondered if she'd spoken aloud or dislodged the stealth disc.

  But no, her hand was still just an oily blur over the countertop.

  He walked – limped – in her direction, using the counters as available support. He really needed a cane she thought, or crutches. Why didn't anyone provide him the simplest aid?

  She tried to back away, but the pain pinching his face troubled her. Almost as much as the hollow resignation in his eyes. Those were the eyes of a miserable man.

  Well. She couldn't do anything about his choices or regrets, but she could take away the pain. And when they reported back to Callahan in a few hours, she would insist he launch a rescue. There was just no way she would allow him to remain a puppet, compelled by God knows what threat, to create bio weapons.

  Instead of inching away, she held her ground as her father came closer. She opened herself just a bit. He stopped short and leaned into the counter.

  "Mira."

  He whispered her name with such gravity she trembled. Could he see her? Would he alert the guards? He stared at a place just past her shoulder.

  "Get out quickly," he said so softly she thought she'd imagined it.

  Knowing he could see her, not caring how, she just laid her hand over his on the counter and drained off a measure of his pain.

  He twitched, tried to pull away, but she held fast for a moment longer. "Let me –"

  "Dr. Luther!"

  Her father twisted around and stepped forward, blocking her view of the man striding into the lab. "Come with me now."

  "Of course."

  Mira knew her dad was trying to prevent her detection, while she was trying to figure out whose side the new guy was on. He looked familiar, but she couldn't place him. The man was intent, but too gentle with her father to be one of Montalbano men.

  And her father, with a combination of sadness and relief on his face, was too agreeable. "It's a shame. We did good work here once."

  "We did," the stranger agreed. "We need to hurry."

  Mira moved to follow them when the stranger turned back. He pulled a cord from his pocket and twisted it, his hands moving faster than her eyes could follow.

  Male voices shouted, but Mira heard one carry above the others. "Get down!"

  She followed Jameson's directive, ducking behind a steel counter and making herself as small as possible. There was a moment more of shouting and a desperate cry that got cut off by an explosion.

  The blast rolled out with a sound so intense and a searing heat to match it. She thought she might as well be standing inside a jet engine.

  Then silence fell as suddenly. Her eardrums must have burst. The heat eased up, though she knew that had to be her body's defenses. The stealth suit fooled human eyes, but fire wasn't as easily blinded. It was the smell, and rush of remembered terror, that made her want to puke. The god-awful blend of blood and sulfur she remembered all too well from her time in African combat zones.

  With a desperate prayer, she curled deeper into herself, looking for a safe place from both the past and the present. She did not want to die here, alone, her DNA melted anonymously into the rest of the destruction.

  She felt something slam into her side. Warm and large, but not burning, not on fire. Refusing to panic, Mira focused on what she would do if – when – she survived. The fire would burn itself out, then what? How would she get away? She imagined walking through the tunnel, or the other exit if necessary. When she was out in the cold December air, she'd breathe deeply again. When she was out, she would call Cleveland for a ride back to Leanore's or maybe even Slick Micky's place.

  For now, she'd stay in her safe place and ride out the firestorm.

  * * *

  A fury previously unknown gripped Jameson as he watched the enforcer prep the bomb and blow up the lab.

  "Get down!"

  He had a vague idea where Mira was, based on Dr. Luther's actions and reactions to the enforcer.

  In that split second, he realized there was no decision to make. The doctor was on his own. Jameson threw himself across the lab to save Mira.

  The det-cord explosion was brutal, pushing him with a blast of searing heat and light even as he dove for cover. The enforcer either knew exactly what he was doing – reducing the lab to ash – or he was a complete novice.

  Neither option was much comfort, but he'd be damned if he let Mira die here today.

  After the first blast rolled by, Jameson battled the flames to reach the fire blanket. He vaguely wondered what would happen to him if the stealth suit melted to his skin. Ignoring the reflexive gallows humor, he called Mira's name, but the sound was choked by smoke and heat.

  Flames danced across counters and reached wicked fingers up and over cabinets in a race for more oxygen. Not much time. Beakers shattered and chemicals flared and stung his eyes as he shuffled, hoping Mira thought to pop out her stealth disc.

  Suddenly a pale blue light erupted near the place he thought she'd been. He rushed closer. Though his eyes were blurred by the hellish and toxic fumes, he recognized Mira. She was curled into a ball, surrounded by that strange blue light. He dropped down next to her, cast the fire blanket over both of them. Taking a moment to breathe a prayer of thanks, he mentally ticked off escape options.

  The tunnel was out. He'd seen Conrad take Dr. Luther that way. Based on the current evidence, the enforcer was more than capable of obliterating any trail by either design or accident.

  Jameson pressed closer when Mira shivered. She was in shock, more likely unconscious, and time was running out. Secondary explosions were imminent. They'd be out of oxygen when that happened. They had to move.

  "We're getting out of here," he said, not expecting a reply. It didn't matter if she could hear him, he felt better for saying the words. Maybe there was something to the positive affirmation crap the shrinks were always spouting during anti-suicide and post-traumatic stress disorder training.

  Hoping like hell whatever was going on with that blue light wouldn't harm him, assuming it couldn't be worse than the fire, he reached for her.

  And jerked his hand right back again.

  "What the –"

  She was so much cooler than their surroundings, it was like sticking his hand into a freezer. He didn't understand the effect, could only hope it was a good thing.

  Braced for the shock this time, he thrust his arm into the blue bubble and hooked her waist, drawing her close to his side. The glow she generated
bumped against him, washing over his face. It was more than sensation, as if the light had substance like water or maybe silk. It was damn weird and he'd make her explain it as soon as they were clear.

  He called her name, shaking her gently, but she wouldn't wake up. Swearing a blue streak against det-cord and mission failures, he maneuvered her over his back. He rocked to his hands and knees, crawling toward the exit door he knew so well from those boring hours in the alley.

  It would've been faster if she'd wake up enough to hang on or help with the fire blanket, but he managed. Broken glass and god knew what else bit into his palms, sliced though the stealth suit to cut and scrape his knees. If, no when, they found Dr. Luther, he'd put in a personal request for stealth body armor. There had to be a way to make it work.

  Mira didn't wake despite the jostling and swearing. Her singed hair brushed his cheek and swung across his face. Next time they got in trouble, she could haul his ass out of the fire. Proverbial or not.

  The image of them reversed was so absurd, the stress of the moment so high, he chuckled. The chuckle turned to a laugh and he lost his balance, crashing to the floor. He lay there, his lungs seared with heat and smoke, trying to catch his breath. Hacking and sputtering, he tried to recall just what was so great about breathing and what was so awful about death.

  His body jerked as his lungs fought and Mira's hair fell in a cool wash of silk over his face.

  Mira.

  Her hair smelled like fresh rain. Gentle, soft, soothing.

  Mira. She was more important than pain. He had to get her out of here. She was too important to leave to a fiery fate.

  Jameson struggled back to his hands and knees and inched forward through the chaos that stormed around them until finally he felt the stream of cool air coming under the stairwell door. Greedily, he sucked in the clean air. They were moments from safety.

  Easing Mira to one side, he covered her with the fire blanket and reached for the handle. God knew what would happen when he opened that door. It would breathe life into the inferno, but it was the only way out.