by P. R. Adams
Dead weight. Just like he’d always been.
Lattimer’s card activated the door. I dropped into the driver’s seat and let go of my cousin’s corpse.
Bullets rattled off the other side of the car, but the windows held.
I stretched, dragged Elijah into the car, and pulled his pistol. Police weapons had at least rudimentary biometric locks. I scanned the fingerprint of his right index finger and hoped that would be enough.
Another fusillade hammered the cruiser, and the first cracks began in the windows.
Time to go.
After driving old SUVs and trucks, the cruiser was like a speedboat on a choppy river. I blasted down Main Street at close to ninety, blood in my mouth, fire in my chest.
As I approached the road to Mendelsohn Ranch, I braked hard, then jerked the wheel. Nitin would have pulled the maneuver off with a lot more skill, but he was a nameless corpse probably in some morgue in Virginia. I had no one else to rely on but me. It seemed like that was becoming the norm.
I had to hold the cruiser under fifty if I wanted to keep it from fishtailing on the road to the gate. There was another cruiser parked in front of the main house—driver and passenger doors open.
The cops they’d sent out to search for the deluxe computing device. Dead.
Whoever had sent the assassins wanted that computing device as much as they wanted me dead. That meant they’d be tearing my place apart.
When my cruiser shot past the house, I had a second to register another car—black, sleek, low to the ground—parked in front of the shack.
Then bullets raked my windshield.
The glass held, but it was scarred.
Two figures in black dashed out the front of the cabin as I swerved away from the gunfire and turned toward the barn. Bullets thudded against the rear of the cruiser’s chassis.
I skidded to a stop a few feet shy of where Neil had been parked and glanced back toward the shack.
The gunmen were scrambling to get into their car.
It was time to test my new cybernetics.
My old fingers had taken a few seconds to produce prints. The newer version proved faster. I popped the driver door and rolled out, pistol in hand.
The assassin that had opened the sleek, black car’s driver door must have heard me. He twisted and pointed his weapon, giving me the first good look at the murderous gun. The barrel was shorter than an assault rifle, closer to a carbine. It was matte black, angular, compact. When it fired, heat seemed to flow out from the stock. Gas release? The muzzle flash was muted and there was nowhere near the recoil I would have expected, light rounds or not.
Bullets banged off the cruiser, and I heard something clang off the barn behind me.
And then there was a pause.
Recoil compensation mechanism? An ammunition cycling limitation? Whatever it was, the gunman decided it was time to go.
I flipped the pistol’s safety off, leaned away from the protection of the cruiser, and sighted on the driver as he ducked in through the door. I pulled the trigger and…
Nothing.
I’d screwed up Elijah’s prints, or the biometrics needed more than fingerprints.
The sports car hummed to life. After murdering who knew how many cops, they were going to get away with the computing device, and I couldn’t stop them!
Then I remembered! Neil’s rifle! It had been leaning against the truck when I’d—
About four feet away, completely away from cover.
I dashed toward it, groaning, hunched low, waiting for the whine of the gun and certain death.
The sports car pulled a sharp turn and accelerated toward the gate.
Neil’s rifle was old, but it had no biometrics locks, and it was high-powered. The scope was simple, fine for deer hunting. I had trained with similar gear. I tracked the speeding car, found the driver, moved the sight to where his head would be, and fired.
The vehicle drifted and slowed, eventually coming to a stop against the fence.
There were two options for the passenger—shove the driver out and try to escape or kill me.
I chambered a new round, repositioned, and waited.
The passenger door opened with a loud thump, and the gunman hopped out, weapon raised, searching…
I put a bullet through his head, and he fell to the ground.
There was time, so I gathered my belongings from the shack. They’d taken the guns, but I still had clothes and the other things I’d picked up in town.
The sporty black car was still idling, doing its best to shove the fence post out of its way. I dragged the gunmen away and searched them, mildly surprised that the driver had been a female. There simply weren’t that many women involved in the dirty fieldwork for the Agency, either as government employees or contractors. This woman had probably been in her early thirties. Dark hair, maybe a little bit of a coppery tint to her skin, wide cheekbones—Hispanic?
No ID, nothing traceable. Same on the man, older, pale skin, thinning blond hair. They would end up just being anonymous casualties in a war most of the world had no idea was going on.
They had tossed my guns into the back seat, along with the computing device. I grabbed the computing device, put my clothes on top of the guns, got behind the wheel, and reversed from the fence, then slowly headed for the gate, getting a feel for the car.
Special Agent Rattner was waiting for me at the airport, maybe to take me to D.C., maybe to put a bullet in my head.
I pulled my data device out and searched for FBI Special Agent Lyndsey Hines. I was on the highway by the time I found a likely personal connection ID. On the third ring, someone answered. Long, slender legs, smooth mocha-mustard skin, dark against the bright white of athletic tape being rapidly wrapped around an ankle.
“Lyndsey?” The legs didn’t look right. Too young.
The image flipped to a face—teen, cute, with Lyndsey’s nose and brow. A daughter? But the eyes were angry, impatient. “Excuse me?” She was definitely angry.
“I’m looking for Lyndsey Hines?”
A groan, an eye roll. “Aunt Lyndsey!”
Niece. The video scrolled across what looked like an indoor field. Laughter, shouting, a whistle. Pedicured nails, sandaled feet, slightly darker legs with a bit more shape to them, black shorts, a navy blue T-shirt, and Lyndsey’s befuddled face.
The video shifted again, this time a straight shot of her face as she walked around inside a sports complex. “Stefan Mendoza.”
“Your niece play soccer?”
“Lacrosse. I’m not going to ask how you found my private ID. I am going to ask if you’re on the way to Boise Airport.”
“I’m not.” That came out hissed as I pressed a hand against my gut. “I’m leaving Emmett. Alone. I don’t know how many cops are dead, but whoever’s trying to get to me is being very, very persistent. I don’t think Agent Rattner would be up to protecting me.”
Lyndsey went out a door, apparently into a parking lot. “Is this Stovall?”
“I can’t figure that out. It doesn’t look like a typical Agency operation. Specialized weapons, a vehicle I’ve never seen before. It’s pretty nice, by the way.”
“So what do you plan to do?”
What did I plan to do? “I had been thinking maybe I would just retire, give Stovall a chance to walk away. Now? These people want me dead. Oh!” I held the computing device up for the camera. “And they want this.”
“A data device?”
“Something a bit nicer. And special, obviously. But I can’t get into it. I know someone who can. If they’re still alive.”
“If you turn yourself in, I can guarantee you protection and immunity.”
“I think enough people have died, Lyndsey. I think I need to go dark for a while. When I do show up, there might be a little noise.”
She winced. “Everywhere you go.”
I disconnected. The car could get me to Nampa. I could find someone to patch me up. After that, it was just a matter
of finding a new ride, getting to Jackson Hole, and resting up.
And when the time was right, I would reach out to my team. And I’d have a little payback for Stovall.
Chapter 9
Shadows stretched along the West Virginia mountainside, turning the young grass blue and draping the recesses in deep grays. Cool, sweet air slipped through lowered windows, dragging away the stale scent from a car that had been on the road a little too long. I needed a shower, to brush the grime from my fake teeth and the foul coffee film from my tongue.
I pushed the car hard around the bends, wishing I could have kept the vehicle I’d taken from the assassins. In the shade, the car was more impressive, a metallic royal blue, but there was no hiding its anemic motor. It handled well enough, but it was meant to be nondescript, functional. There wasn’t enough power under the hood for serious driving if anything were to go wrong.
And there was every reason to believe something would go wrong.
I’d spent the last six weeks burning through cash and contacts, getting patched up and reaching out, trying to establish a connection with Chan. Now I had a meeting set up.
Supposedly.
The shell of an old mining town came into view in a small valley ahead and to the right, blanketed in the mountain shade. Simple wood structures hunched around a handful of concrete buildings in the center. I slowed and drifted toward the approaching ramp—alligator hide asphalt.
There were no vehicles, no lights, no signs of occupation as I pulled to a stop close to the largest concrete building, the car front pointed to the highway ramp. Wide as it was long, with far more entrances than it needed, the place reminded me of a school. The exterior was blackened, not with the look of heavy smoke or fire, but with what appeared to be a buildup of black particles, like a weathering coat of paint. It gave the appearance of a building that had thrust itself up from the earth.
I checked my data device: barely any Grid signal. My suspicions intensified. Chan going without Grid connectivity? It seemed unlikely.
But if there were a sniper waiting for me, I would likely already be dead.
I’d shown up an hour early to be safe. I flipped the safeties off on my weapons and powered the car down. And waited.
My data device chimed. A message: Were you followed?
No signature or ID of any sort.
I replied: Who else would use this stretch of road but me?
Something scraped against my window, and I brought a pistol up, stopping at the last second when the familiar form of a young woman in a tight-fitting black bodysuit and matching hooded coat registered.
I opened the window and wagged the gun at Ichi, admonishing her with, “Unnecessary risk.”
She brought a dull black weapon—a sai—up from beneath the window. “No risk. The window would have been shattered if you pulled the gun any higher.”
Great. She was still dealing with overconfidence. “It’s good to see you. You here alone?”
She squinted into the distance, apparently at one of the other concrete buildings. “Danny is on that rooftop. He is watching.”
So they were both alive. Good. “And Chan?”
Ichi waved at the closest door of the building. Chan stepped through, hunched, staggering beneath the weight of a backpack that seemed cut from the same black material as the baggy pants and hooded jacket that hung off a skeletal frame. Something glowed on one of the backpack straps, and the back passenger door opened. Chan slid across the rear seat, magenta eyes glowing from what might have been a cherub face if not for all the tattoos.
Chan grunted and set the backpack aside, then strapped in. “Can’t stay long. No tracking signals. That could change.”
I suddenly wished I’d brought some air freshener to deal with Chan’s funk. On the plus side, there were no other telltale signs of drugs. Eyes were clear, upper lip wasn’t sweating, no shaking or shivering. I needed to thank Danny for what couldn’t have been an easy task. “You didn’t get here by walking. Where’s your car?”
“Taking you there.”
“Where?”
Ichi waved at something in the distance as she hurried to the passenger door, then rapped the window with a knuckle. When I unlocked the door, she slid in and smiled, dredging up uncomfortable memories of her mother Tae-hee. “Follow him.” She nodded at the windshield.
A motorcycle engine revved, and a black Super-Ninja shot past, brake light winking. The driver was slouched low, dressed in denim jacket and pants and wearing a glossy black helmet.
Danny.
We took the ramp too fast for our own good and shot back onto the highway, heading northeast. The farther out we moved from the abandoned town, the more the road improved. Even so, Danny was going too fast.
I glanced at Ichi, trying not to stare as she pulled the black jacket off. Her bodysuit was sleeveless, her arms sinuous, flawless in every way.
Her eyes narrowed. “What?”
My attention shot back to Danny. “Why’s he driving like this? What’s going on?”
From the back, Chan said, “You get any of the messages?”
“Messages? I thought you’d gone dark like me.”
“Been trying to reach you since the explosion.” Those magenta eyes, like robotic sensors, watching me from the rearview mirror. “Moved around a lot. Someone’s after us.”
“Stovall. The Agency. Whoever put all the money up for Chambliss and his little operation. Take your pick. We’re choice targets, apparently.”
Chan sneered. “Good to be loved.”
“I tried to warn you what this line of work entailed.”
Chan pulled a computing device—expensive, stylish, like the one I’d brought along to be hacked—out of the backpack on the seat. LED ear modifications glowed bright red within the black hood. “Someone else. Someone stubborn.”
“The Agency’s pretty resolute.”
“Different.” Chan flicked an image onto the dashboard display—Grid traffic.
An intricate grid, layers deep, with amber, green, red, and all shades in between. The car was a cyan dot moving across a gray line of infrastructure data pipe. At a glance, we were on a weak section of the network, and signals were building.
Chan leaned forward and highlighted the building signals. “Following us.”
“I thought you said there weren’t any tracking signals?”
“There are now.”
Great.
The Super-Ninja disappeared around a bend. Accelerating. It was reckless. Insane. We were jumping from deep shade to light, and it felt like the car’s tires were barely keeping their grip.
I was getting worried. We needed to ditch the car. “How long—”
A dark shadow flitted past overhead, answering my question.
A flying vehicle—an air limo. Sleek. Swept back. They’d found us.
I floored the accelerator, thankful now for the tall oaks climbing up from the steep cliffside, providing occasional cover and complicating airborne operations even more than normal in the mountains.
I jerked a thumb at the duffel bag in front of Ichi’s feet. “There’s a submachine gun in there. You’re qualified, right?”
“Yes.” The confidence and challenge were gone from her voice.
“It could just be a spotter, or it could be carrying snipers. If it comes back, we have to take it down.”
She dug around in the bag, finally pulling the weapon out. “It is different.”
“Yeah. Very advanced. It still shoots bullets like any other gun.”
After looking it over, she ejected the magazine, looked at the bullets, then slapped it back in. “This will take down such a vehicle?”
“You shoot the pilot, you take down the aircraft. Any aircraft.” Not technically true, but I needed her focused on what we could do, not what might not work.
The dashboard display pulsed with Chan’s feed. “More signals. Ahead. Grid’s getting better here.”
I couldn’t tell if that was supposed to be en
couraging. “More signals meaning what?”
Danny leaned close to the road and disappeared around another sharp bend. I braked a little and cut into the oncoming lane to keep us on the road. Ichi was pressed against her door by the inertia. Coming around the bend answered my question before Chan could: Three cars accelerated up another ramp ahead of us, rising from another dead place festering on the mountain’s rump.
They gained the highway before I could close on them, and they accelerated toward Danny’s Super-Ninja.
“Change in plans,” I said. “We’re not going to be able to keep up with those cars. I don’t know if Danny can outrun them.”
Ichi nodded. “Shoot them?”
“Start with the one in the back. Chan, can you do anything about the air limo?”
A twitch ran across Chan’s baby face. “Already trying.”
“Great.”
Ichi lowered her window and leaned out. She fired, seemed to wrestle with the awkwardness of the effort, shifted, then fired again. I felt Norimitsu’s eyes on me. I had always sworn to protect his daughter. One bad maneuver at the speed we were going, and we were all dead.
The dark shadow passed over us again, this time larger. Closer.
A chunk of asphalt came up from the road ahead, thundering when it slammed against the hood, then again on the windshield.
“Sniper,” I said. Calm. Focused. “Just in case you weren’t sure, Chan.”
Chan’s magenta eyes flashed bright. “Hardened. Not going to be easy.”
None of it was going to be easy. I already knew that.
Ichi got off a third burst just as the trailing car went into a hard turn. Cracks splintered the driver-side windows, and the driver seemed to lose control.
The car swerved to the right, and the passenger-side tires spun out over nothing.
Then the vehicle dipped over the side just enough for the tires to catch on the rocks, to smash into something. Burst.
And the car jerked hard to the right, launching into the air. Disappearing.
The rattle and clatter of the vehicle tearing apart was a distant, welcome accompaniment to Ichi’s gunfire as she zeroed in on the next vehicle.
One of the other cars drifted back toward us.
