Dark mission 04 - Sacrifice the Wicked

by Karina Cooper

  Maybe there was hope for her yet.

  He twitched the curtains aside. Rain splattered the window, hammered the metal fire escape clinging to the building wall. Contrary to his earlier assertion, nothing moved outside, though a muffled series of thuds faded beneath a wild clap of bone-rattling thunder.

  “Let’s go, Director.”

  “I need shoes,” she half snarled, waving sneakers in one hand and her Beretta in the other. Simon flung aside the curtain and unlatched the window. It opened easily.

  Rain splattered the brick windowsill, blew a fragrant blend of wet cement and acid through the room. He braced one hand against the glass over his head, leaned out far enough to study the dark path through the fire escape.

  It was a long way down.

  “Ready,” she breathed behind him. Simon turned. Offered a hand by rote and raised a surprised eyebrow when a wild fork of lightning turned the room bright as daylight.

  Somehow, she’d managed to pack a bag. It hung over her shoulder, a simple canvas rig. Her bare feet now sported laced sneakers, and a black neoprene jacket covered her blouse, hiding the curves he’d had too much time to admire.

  “Always prepared, huh, Director?”

  If looks could obliterate, he’d be a pile of ash on the carpet. Thunder swallowed her response, but Simon bet on a talk on their immediate future.

  Then again, he’d bet on a whole lot more than talking, but not if he didn’t get her out of this net right fucking now.

  Biting back a hard little smile, he gestured gallantly to the open window. “After you.” The door creaked as something—someone—tested the lock. Simon’s humor vanished. “Now,” he added, wrapping his hands around her waist and all but spilling her onto the slippery metal platform.

  The metal groaned beneath her sudden weight. Telling enough to anyone listening. And Salem Project operatives weren’t stupid.

  Under the cover of the storm’s rage, the door exploded open behind him, lock tearing from the doorjamb. Splinters rained into the room.

  A man in black plasteel body armor followed.

  “Move!” Simon yelled, but he didn’t have time to draw his gun. The operative came at him so fast, Simon couldn’t even gauge any details about him. Black-clad, face covered, build lean and lethal. Gun ready. That was enough.

  He lurched to the side, grabbed the man’s gun hand, and yanked him into the room, hard enough to hear his shoulder pop. The operative stumbled, grunting, but twisted sideways. Simon cursed as the motion snapped tension through his side, pulling at his wounds.

  Who was he? One of his own generation?

  A newer breeding pool?

  Three operatives. Nobody’s working alone. Fisher’s warning repeated itself in his brain as Simon caught the fist flung at him, rotated his grip, and rammed the agent face-first into the window frame under his own momentum. The whole wall shuddered.

  The operative righted himself but staggered. Simon danced away from the boot lashed back in lethal intensity. It grazed his shin. Too close.

  As Simon wrenched his gun free, his opponent turned, hands splayed. Giving up?

  Simon hesitated.

  No. It didn’t matter. Setting his jaw, he pulled the trigger, twice in quick succession. He didn’t even stop to check as the man dropped mid-lunge, skidded face-first on the carpet.

  Known or not, the operative made his choices.

  And Simon had just sealed his own.

  He half dove out of the window, adrenaline pounding in his veins. Another impression in his awareness suddenly changed direction; as if Simon were the center of a compass, he felt it—saw it—alter course. And fast.

  Nothing broke stealth like gunfire.

  Rain sluiced down the fire escape, making the rails treacherous. He caught sight of Parker’s soaked form two platforms below him, scaling the escape as if she did it every day. She’d hit the ground first; he still had two floors to go.

  Humor skated through apprehension.

  Faded as a shadow detached from the corner of the building beneath her.

  “Parker!” he roared.

  She looked up, pale features furrowed with intense concentration.

  Only to curse in mingled surprise and anger as the operative grabbed the bag across her shoulders and plucked her, kicking and fighting, from the ladder. Her feet flashed, reflectors on her sneakers throwing back glints of silver. One collided with the operative’s knee.

  The man staggered but held tight.

  Simon holstered his gun, snapped it in place. Didn’t stop to consider the alternative. Seizing the railing in both hands, he vaulted over the edge and hit free fall. His stomach launched into his chest. Vertigo slammed through his head, wrenching his senses lopsided, even as his feet scraped against the operative’s shoulders. Slid down his armored back.

  Silver glinted in a flash of lightning; a metal edge colored blue, and fire seared up his side as Simon hit the ground, took the operative down with him and felt the impact all the way to his bones. He cursed savagely as pain wrecked every nerve from heels to hips. But the operative hit the ground tangled with him, sending Parker sprawling in the opposite direction. The knife flashed as it buried itself in shadow.

  He didn’t have time to hurt.

  The operative recovered first, slammed an elbow into Simon’s sternum as he tried to get to his feet. Gasping, Simon caught his arm, wrenched it; rolled with it until he felt as much as heard the joint in the man’s elbow give with an audible pop. The operative screamed.

  The tattoo emblazoned into Simon’s shoulder scorched white-hot as the air around him froze.

  Son of a bitch!

  Sucking in below-freezing air that burned all the way to his lungs, Simon rolled away from the witch. The rain-slick walkway between the condominium buildings dug into his side, his face, his back.

  Ice crystallized around him. Bitter cold.

  He didn’t have the ability to ward this much magic off.

  Lightning seared the sky, threw wild shadows across the small alley. Red glinted like molten metal in his peripheral.

  His skin felt as if it would peel away from the seal of St. Andrew’s warning burn.

  “Simon, get down!”

  He collapsed. As icy shards of witchcraft shattered the brick above him, gunshots split the storm-ridden silence.

  His? No, his fingers throbbed, too frozen to have pulled his gun loose. Pain fought for dominance between his tattoo and the knife wound in his side. Simon gasped for breath. “Parker?”

  Warm hands grabbed at his. Pulled hard. “Agent Wells, get on your feet!”

  It took effort. A hell of a lot more effort than it should have. The pain merged somewhere over his entire right side. A tear he couldn’t take the time to poke at, a fall he probably should have thought twice about before he rolled onto his knee.

  Oh, yeah. He was a real goddamned hero.

  He forced his eyes open, bared his teeth as he grabbed a handful of cold brick. “Dead?” he managed.

  “Down, at least.” Concern shaped her beautiful face as she slung his arm over her shoulder. Concern, and more than a trace of impatience. “He launched ice like a missile, which means we need to go. Now. Can you walk?”

  With inhuman effort and her support, he struggled to his feet. Agony shredded through his side.

  “Car,” he gritted out from between tightly clenched teeth. “Corner. Just need to get there.”

  A slim arm slipped around his back.

  Grateful for her supportive shoulder, he let her take the lead. Let her guide him as he turned his focus inward and combed the immediate area for anyone else on the move.

  People lived in the condos around her; they registered easily. Living things, pinpointed with almost exact accuracy. It was a hell of an ability. Made getting caught by surprise pretty hard.

  But every time he forced it, he risked an episode. Degeneration.

  Rain pounded them, soaked through his clothes. He couldn’t tell what was precipitation a
nd what part bled through his shirt.

  He’d find out. Sweet Parker Adams would have to patch him up again.

  She’d just love that.

  “Tan sedan?” she demanded.

  “That’s the one.”

  “Keys?”

  He could have forced his hand into his pocket, but right now, straining any part of his body seemed like a bad idea. He leaned on her, just a little bit more. “Pocket,” he said.

  She muttered something he didn’t hear, and without warning, she shrugged him against the hood of the car. It pressed into his back, supported him even as she flattened a hand against his chest to keep him standing. He couldn’t help but grin—a painful flash of teeth—as he felt her other hand slide into his wet denim pocket.

  It nudged at flesh too focused on the ragged line of fire along his side to respond appropriately, but he was man enough to appreciate the gesture anyway.

  “Get that smile off your face, Mr. Wells.” Her tone slid into arctic so easily.

  But he knew the truth; she hit inferno just as fast.

  When his blood wasn’t trying to escape the confines of his shredded skin, he’d prove it. Again. As much as he wanted.

  Until then, he had to make do. As her fingers groped for the small set of keys, he caught her face between his palms.

  She stilled.

  Simon stared at her. This moment, right now, with the rain sliding over her skin, her mouth wet and red and raised toward his, he could pretend everything was going to be okay.

  Nice fantasy.

  The keys jangled free of his clinging pocket.

  She was a rare woman. Maybe that explained the attraction he had no right to claim. The bone-deep need he’d felt for her since that first day in her lower street office.

  Parker’s gaze dropped to his side. Lightning filled the street, painted every hollow and pale curve of her face as she gasped. “Simon.”

  He followed her gaze. Blood saturated through his sodden T-shirt. Spread like a gory flower along his side.

  “Oh, yeah,” he murmured, and realized he didn’t mind leaning against the car quite so much. Fuck, he hurt. “Maybe you ought to drive.”

  “Yeah.” Her voice shook. “Maybe.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Parker slammed the car into drive and did everything she could to keep her gaze focused on the empty street. The rain poured in sheets of gray, rattling the metal roof and pinging off the hood like liquid bullets.

  She could drive in the rain. No problem there.

  What she couldn’t handle was the bloody T-shirt and the man beside her. What she couldn’t stop thinking about was the man in black missionary armor collapsing into a twitching tangle of limbs as the bullets she fired tore through him.

  She knew as well as anyone else the weaknesses of that armor. It was her job.

  But she’d never killed a man before.

  Now what?

  That part came easily to her hastily compartmentalizing mind. The operative they’d fought off was a witch. Like Simon. One of Sector Three’s? He was too outfitted not to be; that was her armor. Her people’s designated uniform. Either Lauderdale was requisitioning her uniform, or his people had already supplanted her own.

  Just like Simon had tried to tell her.

  Damn it.

  Right now, she focused on getting them the hell out of the area.

  Her fingers tight on the wheel, she flattened the gas pedal without warning. The engine revved loudly, and Simon hit the passenger side door with a muffled grunt of mingled pain and alarm.

  Don’t look.

  She didn’t have to. The flash of red in the reflected glow of the car’s dashboard told her more than she ever wanted to know. Her stomach twisted up so tight, it corkscrewed all the way into her throat in a splash of bile.

  Setting her jaw, she guided the four-door sedan—in better shape than she expected, given its age—along the dark street. It took less than a minute to break out of the ring of darkness.

  Parker unclenched her jaw before it locked. “Start talking, Mr. Wells.”

  He took a slow, deep breath, audible even over the car’s still-warming motor. “Parker?”

  Her temples throbbed. “What?”

  “Thank you.”

  That just about stuck her tongue to the roof of her mouth. She shot him a quick, suspicious glance, sparing her attention from the road for a fragment of a second.

  He stared down at his shirt, the hem pulled out as if to ease the pressure from his side. But his mouth turned downward. A thin, tight line. “You saved my life.” His gaze raised to her. Flickered. “Thank you.”

  She looked away. For a long moment, all Parker could do was drive. The silence filled the space between them, so thick she could imagine reaching out and seizing a handful. Twisting it up into knots; shaping it into the words she wasn’t sure how to say.

  What could she say?

  The truth.

  “You’re welcome,” she said quietly. “I’d do the same for any of my people.”

  “I’m not your people.” But his voice didn’t lash; didn’t even harden. Truth given right back to her, easily spoken.

  Her shoulders stiffened. “Which brings me to my questions. That was witchcraft activating my seal.” And she’d forgotten how badly it hurt when it flared. The skin between her shoulder blades still itched. “One of your peers?”

  A flicker of a smile, dry as dust. “Yes.”

  “Why are you fighting them?”

  “Because they want to kill you,” he replied, voice strained and muffled beneath the hem of his raised T-shirt. Motion beside her drew her gaze as easily as if he’d flashed a neon sign; she couldn’t stop herself. Her gaze flicked to her right.

  Her head spun.

  So much blood. Bright red, spreading like a gory flood. Soaking into his shirt, painting his skin.

  His eyes glittered. Narrowed. “Parker? Parker!” He lunged, cursing, and seized the wheel as the vehicle drifted onto the curb. The car rocked, righted under his control.

  Parker sucked in a hard breath, smelled the coppery fragrance of his blood and hastily jammed a finger onto the window control. “Stay over there,” she said sharply, just as he ordered, Keep your eyes on the road!”

  She slammed the back of her hand against his wrist, forcing him to let go of the wheel.

  “Agent, I just shot a man.” Every word blasted out of her on an icy promise she wasn’t sure she had it in her to fulfill, but she was close. Damned close. “You need to start talking, or I will pull this car over and take my chances with whatever witches are left.”

  Blood. Bullets in the dark, a body she’d dropped with a well-timed shot from a gun she’d never had to fire off the range. And in her safe neighborhood, too. Things like this didn’t happen in topside New Seattle. Sec-comps routinely patrolled the streets, streetlamps lit the residency districts to near daylight. Curfews in the residential districts kept the loiterers away.

  Of course, Parker didn’t know how many of these security measures had counted on witches posing as clandestine operatives.

  And she sure as hell didn’t understand Simon’s role in it.

  “I’m sorry.” His voice gentled, even if the hard line to his mouth didn’t. “If I could go back and change it, I would.”

  It meant nothing. “Did you know they were coming?” The cold night air whipped through her half-open window. Shivering as it slid through her damp clothes and hair, Parker gritted her teeth. The alternative meant closing her only avenue to fresh, bloodless air.

  Simon muttered something rough and annoyed as he stripped his T-shirt off. Followed it up with a rueful, “Another goddamned shirt.”

  Because he needed another reason to go without one.

  Nausea warred with a sudden burst of unwelcome heat.

  “Mr. Wells—”

  “I’m supposed to kill you,” he cut in, balling up the wet fabric and pressing it against his side. At the best, it hid the bloody tear just over his r
ibs.

  At the worst, it revealed more of his swarthy, beautifully defined skin than she wanted to cope with.

  Her internal struggle between throwing up and wanting to lick the surface of his abs would have been worth laughing over if she weren’t soaked to the skin, driven from her home, and spiraling into a nasty spike of temper.

  She took a deep breath, hands hard on the wheel, and forced herself to meet his eyes over the bundled cloth. “Okay,” she said, ever so gently. “And you’re not going to.”

  “No.” He smiled, even through lines of pain bracketing his mouth. “I like you just the way you are.”

  A finger of temper jostled loose. “I appreciate that. Explain to me why I just shot a witch wearing missionary armor.”

  “That’s a better question.” But the humor drained from his voice as he shifted, leaning back into the passenger seat. His long legs didn’t quite fit, forcing his knees into the dashboard. “I assume you actually read the Wayward Rose report.”

  “Obviously.”

  “What do you know about GeneCorp?”

  “Not enough.” Her gaze dropped to the dashboard clock. Nearly after midnight. That explained the general lack of traffic. The residences closest to the pinnacle of New Seattle lived among the safest districts, but they operated under strict rules.

  Among the common appearance and maintenance demands, the civic body of the Church demanded a midnight curfew, barring emergency personnel.

  And those whose authority went beyond. Like a missionary.

  Still, getting stopped by the NSRF wouldn’t help anything. She needed to get to safer ground. The club districts, or a late-night restaurant. Something.

  He waited for her to signal, to ease into a turn, before he asked, “Exactly what?”

  “I have a lengthy list of numbers, no names, and a good portion of them marked as failed.” She took a turn that crossed two lanes, grateful for the quiet streets. “Which I take to mean dead.”

  “A good guess.”

  Guess, nothing. Jonas had been rather thorough. “I know it’s a Sector Three operation, but only because Mrs. Parrish brought you on board the same time she foisted Wayward Rose on me.” And because Jonas Stone had to go digging into the Church’s closed-off mainframe to get the data she did have. “I saw the bar codes. Found the link to something called GeneCorp. Followed it to the lab site in the industrial sector where Parrish was killed.”