Dark mission 04 - Sacrifice the Wicked

by Karina Cooper

  “I’m not here to hurt you. My name is Danny—Daniel,” he amended, fast enough that her eyebrow climbed. One part amusement, one part pity. He was taking her order at face value. “Everyone calls me Danny—”

  “Streamline it, Danny.” Parker gestured to the sofa with her gun. “Sit down.”

  “I’m not—” His mouth twisted, pride as far as she could tell. Following the line of her gun, he sidled over to the elegant piece of furniture. It wasn’t the most comfortable thing in the world, but it was pretty and she liked it.

  He sat gingerly. “Can I put my hands down?”

  “Keep them where I can see them.”

  Slowly, he lowered his hands to his knees. His gaze slid to her gun, her face. Back to the door. Her gun, again.

  “Are you expecting someone, Danny?” she asked pointedly.

  “I’m not sure.” Surprisingly candid. “I didn’t expect you to come back here. I wonder if they would.”

  They. Her finger tightened on the trigger. “It’s been a long twenty-four hours,” she said evenly. “You need to get to the point. Who are you working for? Sector Three?”

  “What?” He flinched. “No way! I’m not a witch hunter, either.”

  “Clearly.”

  “I’m here for something else. Someone else,” he amended. He watched her for a moment, raising one hand to rub at his smooth jaw. “Look, I’m not here to fight with you or anything. I’m supposed to bring you to safety.”

  “Then why did you come after us in the café?” She watched her question arrow right between his eyes. He winced, tried to hide it, and only ended up scrubbing that gloved hand down his face.

  “Yeah.” The word crept out from behind his palm. When he dropped his hand, he looked tired, but nervy. Jumpy. “Okay, so, my name is Danny, like I said, and I’m acting on behalf of someone who isn’t part of the Church.”

  “Who?”

  “I can’t—”

  Parker crossed the room, close enough that he could stare down the barrel. “I’ve had a really, really rough couple of days. I’m tired, I miss my cat, and I’m pretty sure the next thing I do will get me killed. So you tell me how likely I am to shoot you down and get you off my back.”

  The blood drained from his disarmingly handsome features. “I know, I know, but I really can’t say. She wants me to—I mean, you need to meet her yourself.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know!” He threw up his hands, fingers splayed. “Please, I’m just the messenger. You know you’re not supposed to shoot the messenger, right?”

  “What’s her angle?” Parker demanded, ignoring the twinge in her chest that threatened to give in to sympathy. The kid was good. Just the right amount of charming.

  Danny looked her in the eye. “Same as yours,” he said. “We all just want to right some wrongs.”

  It smacked of truth.

  But then, had she really been a great judge of character lately?

  The gun wavered. Lowered slowly as she shook her head.

  Of course she had. She’d pegged Simon the moment she’d met him, had read Mrs. Parrish’s intentions within seconds. It wasn’t her ability to gauge people that should be called into question.

  It was her decisions after.

  And now she had to make another one.

  “I’m supposed to tell you something, but I’m going to reach into my pocket, okay?”

  When she nodded her assent, he slid one hand into his inner jacket pocket. His eyes on hers, he eased the edge of something blue out.

  Parker’s eyes narrowed on the plastic case. It crinkled. “How did you get that?”

  “Luck,” he said, the word a sigh. “And one hell of a safe-cracking program.”

  Her jaw shifted. “I didn’t write it,” he said hurriedly. “For what it’s worth, I’m really sorry to be violating your privacy like that.”

  He was too young for this. The real regret stamped on his features forced Parker to swallow her angry words. “But we ran out of options. I’m . . . It’s an offering,” he added sheepishly. “A show of good faith, okay?”

  Her fingers closed over the case. When he let her take it, Parker lowered the gun to the floor.

  Relief filled her. And with it, a wild curl of hope.

  Danny visibly relaxed. “That’s not our only offering,” he said, slower now. Firmer. “You’ll see when you come with—”

  “No.”

  He flinched. “Aw, come on. Don’t make my life difficult.”

  “I have to get to my agents.”

  “But they’re—” His jacket beeped, three signals and nothing. Danny’s eyes widened.

  Parker raised the gun, but he didn’t pay any attention as he clawed at the snaps of his jacket.

  The comm he pulled out was smaller than the kind she usually saw. Not as sleek as the newest ones, but not standard, either.

  “Oh, balls,” he hissed. He stood, pushed away her gun with an impatient hand, and said fast, “We have to go. Like, now. Like, right fucking now!”

  “Danny, calm down and tell me what’s going on.”

  He ignored her platitude, grabbed her hand, and pulled her for the door. “If we’re lucky, we can—”

  They weren’t lucky.

  As Danny reached for the doorknob, the heavy panel burst open. Slammed hard into the kid’s face and sent him careening backward into her. She stumbled, tried to catch him as he collapsed in a tangle of his own limbs.

  Two operatives darted through the door, guns drawn, masks firmly in place. Hers? She couldn’t tell. They didn’t register anything but professional training as one circled Danny and the other dropped a boot against his neck.

  “Nobody move!”

  Parker braced her arms, gun held tightly, but too late. As fear filled her, as adrenaline surged through her too-wired body and sent her stumbling backward, the other man in black body armor leaped at her.

  She swung the gun like a golf club, reacting in pure anger, scared to death and tired of it. The metal caught the underside of the man’s faceplate, cracked it up the center and sent him sprawling.

  He didn’t swear. Her missionaries would have sworn. They were only human, after all.

  She spun wildly, made it two steps when thunder cracked behind her. It split through her eardrums, froze the blood in her veins.

  But it didn’t level her. Didn’t even hurt.

  The bullet wasn’t aimed at her.

  Danny.

  Parker turned, her heart in her throat.

  The man she’d hit grabbed at his mask, shaking his head as if she’d stunned him, but the other lowered his weapon from the ceiling. Plaster coated the carpet. Speckled white flakes across his black armor.

  “Try that again,” came the modulated voice from within the other man’s helmet, “and I’ll put a bullet in the kid. Drop your gun.”

  Her gaze dropped to Danny, his face mottled beneath the pressure of the operative’s boot. He clung to it, struggling to wheeze around it. “Go . . .”

  “Drop it, Director.”

  What did she care? Danny was just some unknown agent. A soldier in this strange, no longer subtle war.

  “Go!” he rasped.

  Only Parker had never been like that. She couldn’t start now.

  She dropped the gun.

  “Good,” said the man. He raised his boot. Danny sucked in a gulp of air, red-faced, choking. “By the sanction of Holy Order of St. Dominic, you are hereby accused of being a witch.”

  Parker’s mouth dropped open. “What?”

  “No!” Danny struggled to sit up, but the operative casually backhanded him. He didn’t change his gun to his other hand to do it. Danny’s whole body rotated with the impact, slumping to the floor as blood gleamed on his lip.

  The man with the broken faceplate seized her by the shoulder. “Payback’s a bitch.”

  Her heart lurched into her throat. “No!” She twisted; his fingers tightened over her collarbone, bit cruelly. “Stop—”


  She didn’t stand a chance. The operative swung a fist wrapped around the butt of his gun, and her head rang like a bell, stuffed with fireworks and white-hot pain.

  Her vision seared to red, white. And nothing.

  If hell had a taste, it lived in Simon’s mouth.

  He didn’t know how long he’d slumped on the floor, or what time it was now. He couldn’t decide what part of his dreams were fever hallucinations, wishful thinking, or the torment of demons as he flashed from one hellish landscape to the next.

  Degeneration at its finest.

  Slowly, the skull-wracking pressure at his ears lessened. Sounds, real sounds, crept through pounding beats trapped in his head. The rhythmic rasp turned into the sound of his own breath, and a faint hum became the electric buzz of appliances, furnaces, more.

  The world coalesced into focus.

  His right hand vibrated steadily.

  Simon raised his fist, squinted at the comm he’d clutched for who knew how long. Daylight streamed through the curtains, lit the blood-soaked carpet beneath him to vivid red and fading brown.

  He was filthy. Saturated in his own blood. Tasting that metallic tang in his mouth and the salty remnants of the blood-laced mucus he hadn’t managed to force down.

  And the world still wouldn’t leave him alone.

  Every limb felt weighted with lead.

  Groaning, he elbowed himself up, flipped the comm screen open. “What?”

  “Simon? You’re alive!” The voice fractured through the silence. Familiar . . . but strained.

  Simon rubbed at his gummy teeth with the back of his hand. “Jonas?”

  “Jesus, man, I’ve never been happier to hear your voice.”

  The raw relief in Jonas’s weary tone forced Simon’s attention to sharpen. To arrow on the screen. “What happened?”

  “Before or after Neely tried to kill me?”

  Jesus Christ. “Short version it, Jonas.”

  “There’s been a coup. We’re talking full-blown overthrow, man, secret police and all. Operatives I’ve never seen before have taken over the Mission.”

  Well, that wasn’t a surprise. “Taken over how?”

  “As far as I know, not a single bullet has been fired. Well, not up there, anyway.” The analyst had a way of injecting verbal expression, and the grimace Simon heard hurt. “The one lodged in my leg probably doesn’t count.”

  Why would they—Simon shook his head, hard enough to send the loose pieces of the puzzle clattering inside his thoughts. “Neely tried to kill you. Did he say why?”

  “Nothing. Just, ‘Come on up to see the director, Jonas!’ and then blam. Lucky for me, someone was watching my back.” A pause. “Your doing?”

  “Jonas, I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.” Simon managed not to growl it. He even somehow succeeded in a kind of calm.

  But the shit had definitely hit the fan.

  “Okay, okay. I’m in the feeds and I’ve been monitoring the broadband for hours.” Keys clicked behind him.

  And something new. A murmur, as if conversations happened around him.

  Wherever the tech was, he wasn’t in his van.

  “It’s bad, Simon,” Jonas said seriously. “Mainstream media’s all talking about a witch attack from earlier this morning. Not a word about the mess at the quad.”

  “Details,” Simon demanded. “I need details.”

  “Right.” More keystrokes, clicking through a brief silence. Simon squinted blearily. “The only thing I’ve been able to piece together is that a bunch of operatives in Mission armor showed up at the headquarters. General staff has been replaced—I dunno where they put ’em, but they aren’t home. And, Simon? They got her.”

  “Her?” And then his brain kicked in. He straightened fast enough for his vision to swirl, but he clenched his teeth, forced himself to his knees. “Parker. Where?”

  “Chatter says they picked the director up at her place.”

  Fucking hell. She’d gone back. Why the hell would she go back?

  Because that’s where she stashed it.

  “She was—get this—with an accomplice. Until about an hour ago, I assumed you were him.”

  “No.” He growled the word. Who the hell had she picked up? What him?

  Who was he going to have to murder?

  He struggled to his feet, swayed. Damn, he felt like death warmed over. “Jonas, where are you?”

  “With, uh . . .” He cleared his throat. “With a mutual friend, I think.”

  Simon slitted one eye in fierce concentration. Where was his shirt? Oh, right. The bedroom. The noise he made was noncommittal.

  “Simon, uh . . . I have to say. You are one bastard of a conniver.”

  “Jonas, for the second time—”

  “You’ve been stepping out on me.”

  “Oh.” Simon padded into the bedroom, found his shirt where he’d discarded it. “That friend. Tell me something, Jonas.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Is he really a friend?”

  There was a pause. And then, very seriously, “You didn’t know, did you? You risked it all on a gamble?”

  Simon’s smile lacked humor. And hope. “Yup.”

  “You manipulative son of a bitch.” But it didn’t sound like anger. Jonas sighed, the sound crackling through the frequency. “I don’t know if friendship is the word, but there’s at least a temporary kind of alliance. The ghost is damn pleased with the datadump you handed over—through me, might I add. I’m patched up and alive when I should be smeared in an alley, and Neely’s dead.”

  “Good enough.”

  “No, it isn’t.” There was an edge to that fine tenor Simon couldn’t recall hearing before.

  Then again, he couldn’t recall much of anything at the moment. God, his head hurt.

  He dug his thumb into one eye socket. It didn’t help. “What?”

  “How many people were you playing?” he demanded. “Who did you manipulate?”

  “Everyone.” A flat answer.

  “Why?”

  Simon was too tired to mince it. “Because Lauderdale’s a psychopath, his daughter doesn’t have the sense God gave a kitten, the bishop’s a tool, your little witch team moves like goddamned molasses, and Parker’s too fucking good to sacrifice on the bloody altar of Church politics.” He took a deep breath. “And I’m fucking tired, Jonas, so what the fuck do you want?”

  Silence. And then, in quieter tones, “I won’t hold this against you on one provision.”

  Simon wasn’t in any sort of condition to make promises. Jonas didn’t wait for him to agree.

  “Director Adams—I mean, Parker.” Even her name sent a shaft of anger through Simon’s gut. And something worse. Something he didn’t deserve. “You’re right, there. She’s a good woman. Get her out of this.”

  “I plan to.” And as the words left Simon’s mouth, bypassing his brain entirely, he knew he meant it. Anger or no. “They’ll take her in to the jails. You have access to your usual stuff from there?”

  “Sort of,” Jonas replied, but slowly. As if he wasn’t sure. “At the very least, I can figure it out fast.”

  “Good.” Simon collected his boots, dropped them by his pile of clothes. “Get me the whereabouts of every known missionary on the roster.”

  “Easy.” Keys clattered, but as the pain faded from Simon’s head, he realized it wasn’t the same sound he’d gotten used to in the past two weeks. Different keyboard. Different tone.

  He hoped to hell the man was in good hands.

  “The orders went out about an hour ago. All missionaries are directed to muster topside.”

  “Fuck.” Simon stabbed the button to transfer the call back to the smaller speaker, raising it to his ear. “This is not good. It’s too soon.”

  “Too soon for what?”

  “They’ve moved on the whole Mission. Okay, Jonas, listen to me very carefully. We need to know who the hell is on our side and where they are. You need to make this happen.” />
  “Done.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “As a bullet,” he replied, but his voice strained. “Parker had me working on it days ago. Simon . . . Man, I have to tell you. The only reason I’m trusting you now is ’cause you saved my life.”

  Simon frowned at the bedroom. His eyes settled on the rumpled bedcovers. The bloodstain he’d left on the sheet.

  Saved Jonas’s life? Not intentionally.

  “You may have risked it, but I think I see what you’re getting at.”

  “Fine.” Simon spoke over him, and didn’t realize until he’d started that he borrowed a note from Parker’s frigid repertoire. “Get to those missionaries, get the word out.”

  “What should I say?”

  “Your call, Jonas.” Simon turned his back on the bed. And the memories made there. Too late for that.

  He had one more shot at this. It had to start with a shower.

  “Hey, wait. There is one more thing I can do.”

  Simon would take almost anything. “What?”

  “If you can get her out, then I can get you safe.”

  Simon stepped into the bathroom, made a face at his reflection—he looked like shit with a serving side of raw meat. “How?”

  “I know a few people.” Cryptic as hell. “And I’m told we’ll have a certain amount of, um, sanctuary. So I’ll be in touch as soon as I can pinpoint them.”

  “Better find a different comm. It’s only a matter of time before they lock you down from mine,” Simon warned.

  The tech’s crystal laughter labored, but the smug edge to it made Simon shake his head. “It’s me,” he said lightly. “Already got it covered. You go get Parker.”

  At this point in the game, Simon didn’t care about anything else.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Parker’s eyes opened slowly.

  Lights. Stifling silence. The strange, clinging filaments of her subconscious faded to bleary awareness. Of pain. Of uncertainty.

  Of restraints.

  She raised her head, bit back a groan as her neck muscles cramped with the effort.

  Damn, she hurt. The dull echo in her head slammed in time with her heart, centered right over her left temple. If this was the kind of headache Simon battled, her sympathy had just ratcheted up by about a thousand.