Dark mission 04 - Sacrifice the Wicked

by Karina Cooper

  “Good. You’re up.”

  She squinted through the light, testing each limb cautiously. “In a manner of speaking.”

  “Brilliant.” Kayleigh Lauderdale stepped into Parker’s field of vision, her hair pulled back into a high ponytail and her features set into grim lines. She’d forgone the suit this time, settling for gray slacks and a cap-sleeved blouse in butter yellow, but she carried her ever-present digital reader in one arm.

  “Do you know the date?” She caught Parker’s face in her free hand, held it straight. Searching her eyes. For what?

  Brain trauma, probably. Parker managed a thin smile.

  She knew where she was. Where they’d tied her up and dropped her.

  The interrogation cells in the Mission weren’t elegant things. Plain gray walls, plain gray floors. Typically one chair, and whatever else it took to get the job done.

  Parker didn’t pretend not to know what kind of confessions unfolded in rooms like this. And now it was her turn. She occupied the only chair, and a heavy table beside Kayleigh was the only other piece of furniture.

  Parker blew strands of her hair out of her eyes, wincing with the effort. Her temple throbbed steadily. “I hear I’m accused of being a witch.”

  A flicker. The doctor’s eyes narrowed. “Whatever it takes to get the quarry in, right?”

  “Wrong.” Parker jerked her face away from the woman’s grip, her tone sharpening. “That’s the difference between a good director and a bully with a mandate.”

  “And you’re a good director?”

  “No.” Parker’s smile edged. “I’m an accused heretic strapped to a chair in an interrogation room with the daughter of the man who just betrayed the Mission.”

  The digital reader dropped to the table, a clatter that echoed sharply through the small room. “Let me be clear,” Kayleigh said, her voice tight. “You’re obviously not a witch. Your blood lacks all the markers.”

  “Obviously,” Parker replied coolly. “But the public wouldn’t know that, right?”

  “Exactly the point.”

  “Bully.” Parker’s mouth twisted as she met the woman’s fog-blue eyes. They narrowed again. “This isn’t the first time your people have screwed with lab results, is it?” The woman had the grace to look away. “I knew it.”

  “I knew you’d figure it out.”

  Small comfort. “I trusted you,” Parker said quietly.

  “No,” Kayleigh retorted, raising her chin. “You never did.”

  And how. “So you tell me why my Mission is now in your father’s hands.”

  The woman stared at her. “You have a lot of confidence for someone tied to a chair, Miss Adams.” She pulled the reader closer to her, flipped it over, and keyed it on. “How long have you been working against the Church?”

  Parker almost laughed. “Are you serious?”

  “You’ve been stealing classified information,” the doctor said, dragging a fingertip across the screen. Parker watched her, the set to her shoulders and rigid line of her back.

  Kayleigh didn’t want to be here.

  Well, great. Neither did Parker. So what?

  “Where is the Wayward Rose folder you stole?”

  Parker raised a spiteful eyebrow. “What’s wrong? Your pet not checking in with you?”

  “He checked in,” she snapped, clearly stung, “but he says the folder was stolen from him. Did you arrange that?”

  “Arrange . . . ?” Parker couldn’t help it. Her laugh broke on a sudden, painful surge of disbelief. Of . . . of pain so deep that it twisted all the way inside her heart.

  He’d never said a word. Hadn’t once indicated that he hadn’t turned in that folder, hadn’t even hinted that someone else had taken the data.

  Who?

  She had one guess. And if they were interrogating Danny now, Parker wouldn’t be the one to turn him over.

  “Did I arrange to have my home watched around the clock just in case Simon ever broke in to steal from me?” she queried, weary humor strained to the point of breaking. “Don’t be ridiculous.” Exhaustion filled her; resignation.

  Regret.

  She bent one hand back as far as she could, quietly testing the manacles locked around her wrists, but nothing so much as shifted.

  Think, Parker.

  “You aren’t a missionary, Dr. Lauderdale.” Parker strove for calm. Forced herself to breathe—through the fear, the anxiety riding her chest. The anger. “You’re a scientist. Why are you here?”

  The woman looked up, her pale brown eyebrows furrowed. “Do you even understand that this is your funeral? Do you get the importance of this?”

  “Yes.” Parker raised her chin. “I absolutely do. Sector Three has officially taken over the Mission, marrying the two in a monopoly that gives your father the run of the Church. Nobody has to answer for anything now. Not for crimes committed against innocent people on the streets—”

  Kayleigh’s jaw set.

  “—or for crimes committed against innocent people in classified labs,” Parker finished flatly.

  “My father isn’t like that.”

  “Salem Project.”

  Kayleigh’s mouth tightened. “So you do know the details.”

  “Of course I know,” Parker replied evenly. “How many of my agents are Salem witches in uniform? Are any of my people still mine?”

  “What?” Kayleigh shook her head, bemused. “Of course they’re yours, all but the few Salem subjects seeded in.” She hesitated. “Were yours.”

  Parker stared at her. Studied the line of her mouth, the deep grooves at each corner and the furrow at her brow, and barely restrained a laugh. “You don’t know. You have no idea what your father’s been up to, do you?”

  “It’s not like that,” Kayleigh replied sharply.

  Such an echo of Simon’s denial earlier, shades of his inflection. Parker wrenched her shoulders. Winced as the restraints pulled. “Then explain what he’s doing.”

  “I don’t have to explain anything to you. You’re a prisoner.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Kayleigh!” Parker’s chair creaked as she leaned forward, but she couldn’t go far. “Your father has been ordering innocent people—my agents—to be murdered. Don’t you think that matters?”

  Kayleigh stepped forward, her fists clenching. “No, he hasn’t!”

  “Then why was Jonas Stone’s name on your list? Where is Amy Silo?”

  Kayleigh’s mouth compressed.

  “The only people standing between you and the active witches in the city are on that list you sent to Simon. What do you think’ll happen when we’re all gone?”

  “My father,” the woman replied, drawing herself up indignantly, “is going to save this city. He’s not murdering anyone.”

  “Hannah Long,” Parker spit out, knowing the names wouldn’t mean anything to the doctor and desperate to try anyway. “Jonathan Fisher.”

  There. A flicker of an eyelash. A twitch. Guilt.

  But Kayleigh shook her head. “Those aren’t innocent people, Parker. They’re subjects. Property of Sector Three.”

  Parker’s mouth fell open. And as rage slid like poison into her calm, shattered it completely, she strained at her bonds. “Subjects,” she said from between her teeth, lips peeled back. “He’s killing people, but it’s okay, because they’re just subjects.” She spat the word. “You and Simon . . . Oh, God.”

  “I don’t—”

  “You were working with Simon the whole time?”

  Kayleigh flinched, but her shoulders squared. “Simon owes us his life!”

  “Simon owes Matilda Lauderdale his life,” Parker shot back. She blinked hard as Kayleigh reeled back. As if Parker had slapped her. A button?

  A chink in the girl’s armor.

  “Your father didn’t make Simon. Matilda did,” she pressed. “She’s Simon’s donor. I bet he didn’t tell you that, did he?”

  Red climbed into the doctor’s cheeks. Her eyes crackled, filled with ice. “Tha
t’s enough,” she whispered. “Simon isn’t— He’s just another—”

  “What? Test subject? Sure. One that carries your mother’s genes.”

  White-faced, Kayleigh took a step closer, fists clenched. Parker didn’t care.

  This wasn’t fair. It wasn’t kind.

  But she wasn’t going to get anywhere with kind.

  And hearing Simon’s name come out of that pretty mouth only dragged Parker’s sympathy further into the muddy depths of her anger.

  “Simon’s your half brother, regardless how he was born,” she said, disgust twisting every word. “But it doesn’t matter, does it? He’s just a subject.”

  The door swung open, and one of the men in black armor stepped inside behind Kayleigh, sans helmet.

  Parker’s gaze flicked to him. Stubbled chin, square features, plain. Determined.

  Cold.

  No memory of his face. No visible tattoo.

  “We’re going to try this again,” Kayleigh said, summoning a thin calm. She didn’t bend, didn’t crouch. Nothing to make the angle easier on Parker’s neck as her eyes darted back to the doctor. “Why did you steal the Wayward Rose file?”

  “Because your operation risked my agents’ lives, and I wanted to know why.” The truth might not set her free, but what did she have to hide?

  Kayleigh’s eyes widened, her arms folding over her chest. “Curiosity? You risked everything for simple curiosity?”

  “No.” Parker’s stare shifted to the man. His pale skin was freckled, but there wasn’t anything kind about the rigid line to his features as he watched her. “I risked everything because this kind of internal warfare destroys people. Someone was abusing his power.”

  “My father—”

  The operative shifted.

  Parker’s glare jerked to Kayleigh again. Pinned with every scrap of anger and loathing and, hell, with fear she felt. “Your father is involved with witches, with the Coven of the Unbinding, and with human testing.”

  Kayleigh paled. But her jaw set. “You don’t know that. He wouldn’t ever deal with witches.” When Parker only stared at her, incredulity warring with pity, the woman flinched. “I mean actual witches!”

  “Dr. Lauderdale—”

  Parker spoke over the dark-haired man with glacial emphasis. “Open your eyes, sweetheart. Your father is butchering people.”

  Crack! The pain of Kayleigh’s slap was nothing compared to fierce satisfaction at breaking the woman. Parker’s head snapped to the side, cheek burning, but her teeth bared in a hard, angry smile.

  The man grabbed Kayleigh by the arm, pulled her physically aside. “Dr. Lauderdale, let me handle this.”

  “I can—”

  “It’s important,” he insisted. “Go wait in the viewing room. Now.”

  Parker watched the conflict on the woman’s face. For a moment, a flicker, that sympathy stirred as anger and uncertainty warred with pride.

  But it wouldn’t last.

  For all Parker’s bravado, she knew she had no proof. Nothing to force Kayleigh to see what Laurence Lauderdale had done.

  Would do.

  Kayleigh herself had access to all the proof she could ever need, but the bond between father and daughter was a strong one. She’d never look.

  Parker closed her eyes.

  “I can handle this,” Kayleigh said quietly.

  “No.” The door opened, and Kayleigh huffed something indignant as footsteps scuffed across the floor. “View from there if you want, but this is Mission business now.”

  “What? You can’t be ser—”

  The door clicked shut. Locked.

  Parker’s smile faded, leaving behind a knot of fear, anger. Anxiety and resolve. She opened her eyes as the operative approached, his blue gaze empty.

  “You’re a good little tin soldier, aren’t you?” she asked, but wearily. “So what part of all this do you come from? GeneCorp? Lauderdale’s pet projects?” Her wrists ached, shoulders mirroring the strain.

  Shortly, this would be the least of her problems.

  The man reached for his belt, withdrew a foot-long tube. It didn’t look like much, but she knew it for what it was.

  The Mission used it for interrogations often.

  Sweat bloomed across her shoulders.

  “Make this easy on yourself,” the man—the missionary?—said as he thumbed the switch. A faint hum filtered through the stifling room.

  Every fine hair on Parker’s arms lifted.

  “Who else did you talk to about Sector Three?”

  “So you can kill them?” she demanded, but it shook. “Please.”

  “What did Simon Wells tell you?”

  Her teeth clicked together as the man crouched in front of her. “I don’t tolerate anyone putting my people in danger,” she said, forcing herself to sound as calm as she didn’t feel. “Lauderdale will regret this.”

  “What information did you have Jonas Stone pull off the mainframe? Who did he send it to?”

  That got her. She frowned. “What are you talking about?”

  The man studied her, head tilted. “Jonas Stone was in touch with someone else at the time you first ordered him to find the data. We have logs. Related, you met with an informant recently at his behest. Who was it?”

  Logs, he’d said. As in . . . “You tapped my comm?”

  He didn’t bother to answer. “He gave that data to someone else. Who?”

  Phin Clarke. It had to be.

  The electric prod hovered. Her skin crawled. “Where did you get that syringe?”

  She clenched her eyes shut. “Go to hell.”

  Simon strode through the Mission lobby as if he owned it.

  Three guns leveled on him.

  One lifted. “Let him pass.” It seemed telling that most of the Salem Project operatives Simon had met were men. He knew women were involved—hell, fully a third of the subjects were female—but Laurence Lauderdale didn’t seem to share Simon’s appreciation of the gender.

  He nodded to the men guarding the front entry. “Where’s the party?”

  The man he knew only as Jones—like Simon and the rest of the lost souls the Church took in, the name had been given—jerked a thumb down the hall. “Interrogation rooms. We’ve rounded up most of the resisting missionaries, but there’s a few still insisting we’ve got it wrong.” He shouldered his gun, tilting his head. “You were supposed to bring that woman hours ago. Where the hell were you?”

  Simon raised an eyebrow. “Trying to locate her sources,” he returned evenly.

  The man frowned. “Sources? More rebels?”

  Rebels. As if they’d earned the right to call themselves some kind of standing army.

  For Christ’s sake.

  Turning his back, Simon strode in the direction the operative indicated—although he didn’t need the help. He knew where the interrogation cells were.

  Putting Parker in one didn’t promise a happy fucking ending.

  He couldn’t run. Every alarm in his body screamed at him to haul ass, kill every last bastard in the room and shoot a few more for emphasis, but he couldn’t do that, either.

  Everything depended on him.

  Her life, anyway.

  The rest was a lost cause.

  His head hurt, but at least he was clean. More or less. He stepped into the elevator, hit the right button, and waited as the motor kicked in. The Mission elevators rode smoothly, and he was acutely aware of the security camera in the corner.

  He schooled his features into something mildly impatient. Mostly indolent. The same mask that had gotten him through years of training in Sector Three.

  Funny how Parker hadn’t responded as well to that mask as she had to the man he was inside.

  His heart thumped hard.

  He couldn’t be too late. They wouldn’t kill her this fast, they’d want her information first. See what she knew, who else she’d told.

  Maybe, after all this was over—if they survived the day—she could forgive him the p
ain he’d caused her.

  And maybe her cat was a magical tooth fairy.

  His fists clenched as the elevator slowed. The doors opened, a subtle whoosh of compressed air, and two heads lifted on either side of the hall.

  Two guns followed.

  More operatives. More faceplates.

  And a hall full of cells.

  “Where’s the doc?” he asked, strolling out of the elevator as if he had every right to be there.

  “Operation number,” barked one.

  Simon didn’t bother moderating his sneer. Curling his fingers into his collar, he yanked the fabric far enough down to reveal the seal of St. Andrew imprinted in his skin. And beneath it, the bar code.

  They’d both have similar.

  Both guns lowered. “Some shit, huh?” the first man asked.

  Simon couldn’t tell if he knew them. The helmet modulated the voice too much, and neither said anything to suggest they knew him.

  How many men had Lauderdale hoarded away?

  Christ, how many facilities besides Simon’s birthplace still functioned?

  “Yup,” Simon drawled. “Some shit. Where’s Dr. Lauderdale? I’ve got a report for her.”

  “Two doors on the left,” the second man said and tucked his gun behind him. “Don’t go sticking your nose anywhere else.”

  Simon grinned. “No, thanks.”

  He made it three steps, squarely between the two, when a scream—muffled, female, and ragged—ripped through the hall.

  Neither of the men so much as twitched.

  Parker.

  “That’s three,” said the first man. “Pay up, John.”

  “Son of a bitch.”

  Simon didn’t think. Didn’t even hitch a breath as he reached out beside him. The man digging in his pants utility pocket strangled on a curse as Simon wrenched his gun around, hauled the man backward with the strap and fired a semiautomatic burst in a wide arc.

  It almost drowned out Parker’s screaming.

  The bullets slammed into the wall, tore plaster and paint into ribbons. Impacted the operative with rounds too big for armor to completely stop. He staggered back, blood flashing, smeared on the wall behind him.

  Simon spun, wrenched the gun to his side. The second operative stumbled, struggling to disentangle himself from the strap, and met Simon’s fist with his faceplate.