Terminated tr-3

by Rachel Caine

  “Bryn,” Riley said. “Same thing. Toss the weapon, get out and on your knees.”

  “Sorry,” Joe said. His voice was clipped and tight with fury. “Never saw it coming. Should have, I guess. But you get so used to your pets you forget they can bite.”

  “I said I was sorry,” Riley said. She sounded calm and amused. “Bryn. Count of five, I’m blowing his head off, and then I shoot Patrick. If it comes down to the two of us, I’ll probably still win. You know that, and you still lose these two. I don’t want that, and neither do you.”

  Red fury rose up inside her, a hot spiral that made her hands tingle with the need to rip into Riley’s flesh. She wondered if it showed in her face; it must have, because Riley tensed and took hold of Joe’s collar in a tight grip.

  “Don’t,” she said. “Out. Do it.”

  Bryn popped the door, tossed her gun, and knelt down, hands behind her head. “You’re working for Jane.”

  “Never,” Riley said. “I told you, I work for the government. I always have, and I always will. This doesn’t have to go badly. Just give me the formula, and I’ll let you all go. You’ll have to hole up with Johannsen at her cabin, but you won’t freeze to death, at least. I’m sure she’s got transportation to get you back to the plane once it thaws in the morning.”

  “Salving your conscience?” Patrick asked. “You know we need the formula to stop Jane. And we still don’t know if the sample Manny has is any good.”

  “That’s right, and this might be the last viable sample, so no offense to your personal vendetta against Jane, but your government needs it more. I’m sorry, but my mission diverged from yours. We’ll take on the Fountain Group. You know we’re better equipped to finish this.”

  “I know the government’s half owned by these assholes,” Joe said. “You know that, too, Riley. Jesus Christ, you were there. There was a whole helicopter regiment ready to blow our balls off in the middle of the Heartland. What makes you think the people you hand that over to will do the right thing?”

  “He’s right,” Bryn said. “Riley, think. Your orders could just be the Fountain Group taking the easy way out, and getting you to do their dirty work for them.”

  “We’re boned anyway,” Joe said. “She’s been making reports, which means somebody along that chain of command will have leaked it. We’re just lucky they haven’t killed us yet—”

  “Shut up!” Riley said sharply, and yanked on his collar. “Joe, you know I like you, but you’re talking bullshit. Nobody is going to sell us out. I work for the FBI, not some banana republic Bureau of Corruption. . . .”

  Bryn could have sworn that she heard something, but it probably wasn’t the drone itself; those were eerily quiet. It was probably the missile it released, hissing toward its target. It was a split second of knowing, with a sinking feeling of horror, that something wasn’t right, and then Dr. Johannsen’s quiet, remote cabin exploded in a fireball that lit the snow with hot orange an instant before the concussion wave slammed into her, knocking her forward, and blew the SUV into a sideways skid. She’d fallen with her face toward it, and so she saw the windshield and windows explode like jagged safety glass confetti as it slid . . .

  . . . toward Joe and Riley, who’d both been knocked over as well.

  Riley had just enough time to wrap arms and legs around Joe and roll him out of the path before the heavy weight of the left front tire tore through where they’d been.

  Bryn lunged for the gun she’d thrown away; she saw that Patrick was doing the same, fifteen feet away on the other side of the trail. They both came up armed at almost the same second. Riley was pinned under Joe’s weight, and somehow, he’d come up with a backup weapon—a knife, which he was pressing right over her carotid artery.

  Johannsen’s cabin was a holocaust of flames and billowing black smoke. Bryn could feel the unnatural heat on her back, even at this distance.

  “You were saying?” Joe asked Riley. It was almost his usual, good-natured voice, but the muscles in his jaw were tight, and his eyes were narrow and cold. “About how you don’t work for the Federal Bureau of Corruption? I’m sorry, I might have lost the last of that in the giant fucking explosion that just killed an innocent woman.”

  She didn’t answer. She didn’t move, except to shake her head. More denial, Bryn thought, than response. Her world had just been rocked . . . or shattered.

  “Come on,” Patrick said, and tapped Joe’s shoulder. “We have to get the hell out of here. If they’ve got a drone, they’ll be coming back around for another pass.”

  “Not much use in trying to outrun it,” Joe said, but he eased his weight off of Riley and yanked her up to her feet. While he held her, Patrick gave her a quick, competent pat down for weapons, then shoved her to the SUV. Joe took the backseat next to her, with his own recovered sidearm pointed at her for security. Bryn took the driver’s seat, brushing the broken glass away, and started up the engine. It took a few tries, but it finally caught just as Patrick slammed his door closed and clicked his seat belt in place.

  “Any suggestions on how to do this?” she asked him.

  “Considering we’re on flat, empty snow plains? Not a fucking clue,” he said. “Small-arms fire won’t help us, either. Just . . . drive. At least we’ll make them work for the privilege.”

  It wasn’t a great plan, but Bryn had to agree, it was all they really had. And, some thought, if the drone dropped another missile on them, at least they’d never know it. Even upgrades like her and Riley would be incinerated in a blast of that magnitude. The skies had been clear before, but over the past hour they’d darkened as weather moved in; the low, gray clouds made it impossible to spot any approaching threats. The ruins of the Johannsen cabin smoldered behind them, still burning and sending sullen belches of smoke to the skies, but it fell behind quickly as she edged more speed out of the SUV on the slick, uneven road. Her neck began to hurt from the strain of driving, craning to look at the skies, and the bone-shaking bounce of the SUV on the rutted track.

  She realized, about the same time as Joe and Patrick did, that they were worrying about a threat from the sky when they should have been looking out for one at ground level. As the SUV slithered over the top of a rise, and she caught a view of the town of Barrow in the distance, she also saw a glittering row of vehicles spread out in a semicircle below. Heavy SUVs, like the one she was driving. And in front of the SUVs were men, a lot of them, all armed with what looked like military assault rifles.

  “Have I said we’re boned already?” Joe asked.

  “Twice,” Patrick said. “Still true, though. Riley?”

  “I wasn’t told there would be backup,” she said. “It was supposed to be simple. Get the formula, leave you at the cabin, and get back to Barrow.”

  “I’m going to hazard a wild guess and say they intended all of the rest of us to go up with Dr. Johannsen,” Bryn said. “Then you’d run into this welcome party. They’d kill you, take the formula, and be out of here within the hour. Nice and clean.”

  “Not government,” Joe said. “The drone was a time-share, probably, but these guys? No way they’re military.”

  “No,” Patrick agreed flatly.

  Bryn stopped the SUV. There was nowhere to go, really—heading out over the tundra wasn’t much of an option. There would likely be dips and ruts that would bury the truck fast, or break an axle . . . and a drone still circled overhead, most likely.

  “They’re hers,” Patrick said. He sounded . . . empty, Bryn thought. Drained of emotion. She understood that; too many shocks, too little adrenaline left. Her body simply couldn’t be bothered to power up anymore.

  Until she saw Jane.

  Patrick’s ex was standing on the running board of one of the SUVs. Her parka’s hood was thrown back, and even at this distance, Bryn recognized her easily. It was something in her body language, really—a kind of infuriating confidence that made Bryn want to kick her ass, personally, never mind all the firepower.

  “Wel
l, shit,” Joe said. “Riley? You want to tell us again about the pure, holy intentions of the federal government? I’m all fucking ears.”

  The men with rifles were closing them into a killbox. Even if the SUV had been hardened with bulletproof glass and reinforced steel, this would have been dark days, but it was a commercial model, and the blast back at the cabin had done for the glass, anyway. Freezing winds whipped blown snow through the openings and lashed at Bryn’s face. She couldn’t feel her ears, or her fingers. Frostbite could take hold fast, up here.

  So could death.

  “Options?” Joe asked.

  “Don’t see much,” Patrick said, “unless you’ve got the cavalry on standby.”

  “Forgot to ship in the horses. My bad. Guess we’re—”

  “Giving up?” Patrick asked, and grinned. It was a manic, slightly insane expression, and Bryn’s guts twisted with sudden worry. “You really think I’m giving up to that bitch? I’d rather die in a hail of bullets, wouldn’t you?”

  “Some of us don’t have that option,” Riley said quietly. “I’m sorry. This is—”

  “Your fault? Yeah. It is. Fuck your apology,” Joe said. “Okay. Plans?”

  “Kill ’em,” Patrick said. “What else?”

  He grabbed Bryn suddenly, pulled her over, and kissed her. It was a frantic, hot, desperate kind of thing, and she knew, horribly, that it was good-bye.

  That they would not walk away from this.

  Then Patrick twisted away from her, raised his sidearm, and began calmly, precisely shooting the men who were advancing on the car. Bryn grabbed her own sidearm and fired through her window, counting as men fell. Her hands were shaking, from the cold and the fear, and she was dropping one only every two bullets. In the seat behind her, Joe must have armed Riley, because she, too, was shooting.

  Jane’s people weren’t shooting back.

  Fuck, she thought, in a cold moment of clarity. They want us alive. They were going to get the cure. One way or another, they’d get it . . . unless she hid it, fast.

  She stopped shooting, unzipped her parka’s inner pocket, and unrolled the small glass vial. It wasn’t very big, but it was big enough to scare her.

  No choice.

  She put the vial in her mouth, shoved it back with her tongue, and forced herself to swallow.

  The vial filled her throat, an unyielding, burning obstruction, and she panicked, thrashing. Swallow, you stupid bitch, swallow! She kept trying, and finally, on the fourth convulsive gulp, the glassy weight slid down.

  She felt it hit her stomach, and almost vomited it up. Almost.

  Jane gave a shouted order, and Patrick yelled, “Incoming!” and grabbed Bryn to yank her down under the cover of the dash—but it wasn’t full grenades, it was flash-bangs that left her weak, blinded, and dizzy. She choked on what must have been tear gas, delivered along with the flash-bangs, and retched up bile and drool as it burned in her lungs.

  Her instincts were to get out, fast, and she managed to claw her way free of the truck, somehow, and rolled into the cold snow. It burned on her face, but it felt good, too. So did the relatively clear air.

  The stunning effects of the flash-bangs faded, but not before she felt the bite of handcuffs on her wrists, and zip-ties binding her booted ankles. She twisted and writhed, trying to break free, and as she rolled over on her back, she looked up to see Jane’s smiling, hated face.

  Jane wiped snot and drool from her mouth and nose with a gloved hand and said, “Oh, Bryn. We are going to have such fun again, you and I. After I finish saying hello to my husband.”

  Bryn’s voice came out ragged and rough. “Ex,” she panted, and coughed from deep in her chest. “You fucking psychopath.”

  “It’s good to get these feelings out. Feel free to cry if you need to. This is the end, Bryn. I win. We win. From now on, everything changes.” Jane gave her a calm, crazy, saintly sort of smile, and moved on to the others. Sharing her gloating in equal measures.

  Please, Bryn thought. Her stomach churned, and her brain was flashing feedback, images of the last time Jane had held her prisoner. She didn’t need that. She needed to think. Liam and Annie, they were with Manny and Pansy. Still free. Manny’s paranoia would have triggered by now, and they’d be heading for safety. He had the cure. It wasn’t over.

  It couldn’t be over.

  But, as Bryn was picked up and carried like a still-struggling corpse to Jane’s truck, she had to admit that it felt that way.

  The glass vial she’d swallowed sat heavy in her stomach. It was sealed, but the stomach acids could eat through the stopper. . . . And if they did, what then? If Thorpe was right, she’d just . . . die. Shut down.

  It might not even hurt.

  The guard with her was a square-jawed Hispanic man with a shaved head. He seemed too young to be doing this, but his eyes were ancient, and utterly cold as he shoved her into place in the back. She struggled, vainly. He ignored her until he’d filled a syringe from a bottle, and plunged the needle home. She felt warmth and chemical bliss spreading rapidly through her body, and tried to fight it.

  Lost.

  She felt cozy and calm by the time Joe was loaded in next to her, equally drugged. Then Patrick. Riley was last, dumped across their laps in a mumbling daze.

  And then Bryn faded off into a sunset distance that wasn’t quite unconsciousness.

  She never even felt the SUV drive away.

  Chapter 23

  Coming out of it was bad—nausea and a pounding headache, ashy taste in her mouth. A general feeling of overwhelming despair. That was partly chemical, of course, the despair, but the situation certainly didn’t call for optimism.

  She was alone, in an empty room. No windows. It was smooth concrete, with inset lighting far above protected by thick mesh. One door with no interior handle, and no hinges visible.

  The only design feature was a drain about three inches across. That was chilling. She remembered being in one of these types of rooms before when she faced decomposition; the drain represented easy cleanup when all the screaming was over. The only difference was that where the Pharmadene death chambers had been white, and fitted with observation windows, this was more like . . . a tomb.

  It terrified her that she didn’t know where they’d taken Patrick, or Joe, or Riley. Dying was something she’d long ago accepted—however long and painfully it might come. But losing people . . . That was something she couldn’t reconcile. She’d lost a sister when she was young, and had never known what had become of her. She’d lost plenty of friends and people she trusted, since all this had turned her life into a nightmare.

  But she couldn’t become used to it. The idea of never seeing Patrick again made her black and hollow inside. The idea that Jane would be the last face he ever saw . . .

  I have to kill her, Bryn thought, with razor-sharp clarity. If I do nothing else ever again, I have to find a way to kill her.

  There weren’t any weapons here. They’d stripped her and put her into a cheap paper coverall, in a deeply unflattering blue. Bare feet in paper slippers.

  She stared hard at the drain. It wasn’t just a hole in the ground; there was a brass perforated plate over it, probably to discourage rats from using it as a freeway entrance. No visible screws. She tried pulling it up, but got nowhere. Nails broke off, leaving her fingers bloody, but she finally managed to pry up one end, and work two fingertips beneath for leverage.

  The cover snapped off. It wasn’t a lot of help, even then, because it was smooth and round. The screw had broken off cleanly, and there was no digging it out of the fastening in the drain.

  Bryn stared at the round shape for a few long moments, then licked the blood from her fingers, took a firm grip, and began methodically working it back and forth against the concrete floor. It would take hours to make any kind of dent in it.

  She had all the time in the world.

  Hours did pass, long ones; she kept grinding the drain cover down, and once she had a straight edge,
she began to strop it back and forth in brisk scrapes. Her dad had favored a straight razor, and she’d often watched him sharpen the blade on the leather strop that had hung in the bathroom against the pale green tile. The same strop he’d used to whip them when they misbehaved, or when they’d gotten in trouble in school, or brought home bad grades, or . . .

  All this time, Bryn had never thought about her father much. He was a hole, a shape without a face, but the action of sharpening that makeshift blade filled things in for her. He’d had Annie’s eyes, the same clear color; he’d liked close shaves and sharply astringent aftershave. Clean white T-shirts under his work shirts.

  The strop. The strop had disappeared, at some point. Bryn remembered that, remembered hearing an argument between her parents. It was about the same time that her sister Sharon had vanished into thin air at nineteen . . . and about the same time that Grace, then sixteen, had gotten pregnant.

  It was all significant, somehow. The strop. Sharon. Grace’s pregnancy. Bryn had just tried to block it all out; her father and brothers had been an angry bunch, though Tate, then just eleven, had stayed close to her.

  It had been the strop that was significant, but Bryn didn’t remember why. Just the argument, the indistinct screaming voices. Grace, weeping. Slamming doors.

  And Sharon, just . . . gone. Gone and never coming back.

  Bryn froze in the act of sharpening as she heard a sound at the door—the distinct click of a lock coming open. She sat against the far wall, knees drawn up, with the drain cover concealed in her right palm. She tested the edge with her pinkie fingertip. Not razor-sharp, but sharp enough to cut, with enough force behind it.

  She knew it would be Jane, and it was.

  The woman walked in and shut the door behind her, leaned against it, and crossed her arms. “Well,” she said. “Look at you. Feeling better?”

  “Sure,” Bryn said. “Love what you’ve done with the place, Jane. You have such a flair for decorating.”

  “I do,” Jane said, and gave her a slow, cat-in-the-cream smile. “You’re going to die here, so I’m glad you like the accommodations. Of course, given your upgrades, it’ll take . . . well, a really long time. No food, no water—that will starve them out. But our best estimates are that you’ll probably last at least three or four weeks before you start losing limbs. That’s how it happens, you know. The nanites begin to jettison excess baggage to preserve core systems, so they shut off the extremities. Legs first, one at a time. Then arms. Of course, at that point, you’re just a torso and a head rolling around on the floor, screaming. I really don’t know what comes after that, though; we haven’t done a whole lot of research.”