by A. M. Geever
“Are you out of your mind? There’s still the rest of the Council to answer to!”
Buzz Cut seemed to appraise his partner for a moment, then pulled his sidearm and pointed it at the man’s head.
“Enter your code. I have kids, for Christ’s sake!”
His partner froze. “You cannot be serious.”
“Do it.”
Mario could see the other security teams gesticulating to one another. The unfolding drama had attracted their attention. The phone on the desk in front of him began to ring. Dull thumps emanated from the bulletproof glass that separated this checkpoint from the next, but whatever the man pounding on the wall shouted was drowned out by the alarm klaxons. The recalcitrant guard, now held hostage, glanced through the glass to the others.
Despite the noise, all three men heard the soft but ominous click when Buzz Cut switched off his gun’s safety. “I won’t ask again.”
Without a word, the other guard turned and punched in his override code. The door unlocked.
Mario turned on his heel and left, shutting the door behind him. He had three minutes of automatic lockout before they could override again. He headed for the stairwell next to the elevator, willing himself not to run, then abandoned the pretense the moment he was through the doors. He took the steps two at a time, groaning at the pain from his fractured ribs. He fitted the suppressor to his M9 pistol as the shrieks of the alarms reverberated and echoed off the stairwell’s concrete walls.
Mario cracked the stairwell door open and heard voices approaching. He stepped back behind it. A moment later the door opened. Four Council Security Officers stormed through and down the stairs without even clearing the area.
Thank you, St. Jude.
Mario waited until the man on point had almost reached the landing before he fired.
Tiny hisses and the first two men were down before their companions realized what was happening. Mario shot the third through the throat as he turned. The last man, the one closest to him, managed to turn completely around. The boom of his weapon made the din in the stairwell unbearable. He too went down, but not before Mario felt a bullet bite into his arm.
He couldn’t go out to the corridor now. Even with the alarms wailing, the security detail at the entrance would hear the gunfire. Mario lurched up the stairs, desperately trying to formulate an escape.
The laundry!
Lab coats and scrubs were washed on site. There was a chute on the second-floor landing that went directly to the laundry on the ground floor, one story below where he entered the building. Hope energized him. He sprinted up the last fifteen steps. The stairwell door below him opened with a dull thunk.
Mario dove for the chute and tumbled headlong. He tried to slow his descent by pushing his arms and legs against the sides but was hampered by his injured arm. He tucked his head as he landed atop a pile of blue scrubs. White-hot bolts of pain radiated from his bicep and side. Blood ran down his wrist and seeped through his coat sleeve.
Still have my gun.
He staggered to his feet and set off for the loading dock, grabbing a clean pair of scrubs from a stack of folded laundry on an industrial-sized cart. He slowed down as he got closer to the loading dock, then stopped and listened. The area appeared deserted, but he would not be able to open the loading dock door. Instead, he entered a break room next to the exit. He hopped on a table near the wall and peered through the high window above.
Mario could see part of the rear parking lot from his vantage point since the ground sloped down from the window. His car was awash in a sea of flashing lights. He shrugged out of the carriers and his coat. His arm was not as bad as he’d feared, but he had to bind the wound—they’d bring dogs out to track him. He wrapped the scrubs top around his bicep and bound it tightly to his arm with the matching bottoms.
Mario shot the window twice, thankful that he had not lost the suppressor in his tumble down the laundry chute. The safety glass stayed in place, but spider webs of cracks radiated from the bullet holes. Three quick jabs of his elbow and the glass gave way. He shoved the carriers out. One caught a piece of glass stuck in the frame and fell back inside. Mario grabbed the carrier strap, then laid his coat over the window ledge. He was just about to holster his gun and hoist himself up when a voice called out.
“Freeze! Hands up now and turn around!”
Gently, Mario eased his pistol onto the window ledge. If he could turn fast enough…
“Move your hand away from the gun. Don’t try anything smart.”
Mario turned around. A glowing red bead from a gun sight appeared on his chest. Gus stood in the doorway.
“Mr. Santorello?” the old man asked, surprised. “What the hell are you doing here?”
The red bead on Mario’s chest barely moved. “I need you to do me a favor, Gus. I need you to turn around and pretend you never saw me.”
“What have you got in those carriers?” Gus demanded, but with less conviction. “Get down from there and let me see.”
“Let me go, Gus. No one has to know.”
“You just get down,” the old man said, but his voice was filled with uncertainty.
Slowly, Mario climbed down. He leaned against the table as if he favored one leg over the other.
“Walk over here to me.”
Mario took a step, then grunted with false pain. He leaned against the table once more. “I hurt my leg.”
Gus approached Mario cautiously. “Open that thing up,” he said, gesturing to the carrier in Mario’s hand.
Mario unzipped the carrier. Gus peered in, then looked up, his expression puzzled.
“Is that what I think it is? Why are you stealing from your own lab?”
“That doesn’t matter,” Mario said. “But if you don’t let me go, I’m a dead man.”
Gus smiled like a conspirator and Mario relaxed.
“You were a dead man the minute you walked through the door, Mr. Santorello.”
Mario stared at Gus, dumbfounded for a heartbeat. The old man who had been kind to him… Jesus! How could he have been so blind?
“You’re on the Council payroll.”
“It’s nothing personal, Mr. Santorello,” Gus said, sounding genuinely apologetic. “I never cared what you did; you were always good to me. But a fella has to take the opportunities that come his way.”
“I can protect you,” Mario said. “Just let me go.”
“And who would protect my family?” Gus asked. “No, I don’t think so, thanks all the same. I don’t know what you did, and I don’t want to. I didn’t even know it was you they wanted till now. The Council guys just said to look for anyone out of place.”
Mario slumped in defeat.
“You had a good run, son. Be content with that.”
Gus stepped closer and put his hand on Mario’s shoulder. The red bead on his chest slipped and Mario exploded to his feet. He barreled into Gus with his shoulder, knocking the old man back. He pressed forward and punched Gus in the throat, felt the windpipe crunch under his fist. The old man collapsed to the floor, his gun sliding from his nerveless fingers. A strangled wheeze added its high, thready pitch to the cacophony of alarms.
Mario re-zipped the carrier, then stooped to retrieve Gus’ gun and tucked it into the back of his waistband. Gus lay on the floor like the feeble old man he was. His mouth opened and closed like a fish on a creek bank, his face already turning blue.
“That was personal,” Mario said, but his words came out as a half-smothered sob.
Mario Santorello had been one of the most powerful men in the Valley, even with the hammer of a suspicious City Council hanging over him for so many years. He had played the role for so long that at times he feared he had become a soulless monster with not one true friend to his name. Now Gus lay on the floor in front of him, suffocating. Even he, the kindly half-friend of sorts, had been a lie.
Mario scrambled onto the table. He shoved his coat and the last carrier through the window, grabbed his pistol, and ho
isted himself up. He squirmed through the mud outside, half-sliding down the small hill to retrieve the other carriers. Flickers of light from search parties setting out from the parking lot winked at him. He scurried back to the window, snatched his coat, and tossed it in the direction of the parking lot.
His hand wrapped tight around the carrier straps as he set out in the opposite direction, toward the eastern edge of the GeneSys campus. The sodden ground squelched underfoot in time with his pained breath as he ran into the rainy night.
29
“Are you sure there’s nothing else you need?” Harold asked again.
“No. Really, Harold, this is great,” Miranda said. “More than I expected.”
“I wish you’d tell me where you’re going,” Harold said, worry plain on his face, before adding, “I understand why you can’t. I hate the idea of missing something you need because I didn’t understand all the requirements.”
“You’ve outdone yourself, Harold.”
Miranda’s long-time admirer looked at her. “Just be careful, okay?”
“I will, I promise.”
She allowed a hug, which Harold managed to make too long and completely uncomfortable. She stepped through the door into the Jesuit Residence’s underground garage, where the armory was housed. The entire garage had been turned into a staging area which bustled with activity. Harold sent so much equipment that Miranda half expected to find a box with nothing but lingerie. There were flak jackets and radios, guns and ammunition, far more than she had asked for. The empty crate for the .50 caliber gun fitted to one of the M1113 Humvee’s gun turret leaned against the wall between a box of grenades and a small pallet of C-4.
The rain continued unabated, sheeting down the garage ramp to create a shallow puddle at the bottom before running down the floor drain. The Humvees were parked at the top of the ramp, indistinct shapes in the darkness. Harold had told Miranda if they wanted a truck large enough for eight people, they would need to push their departure back a day, but they could not afford the delay.
Miranda and several helpers were only halfway through deciding what to bring and what to leave behind when Doug appeared.
“Miri!”
One look at Doug’s agitated face was enough for a dark foreboding to settle around Miranda like a cloak. She hurried over to him.
“What’s happened?”
Doug motioned for her to follow. They climbed the stairs against a tide of bodies going the opposite direction. Miranda checked her watch. It’s after ten… Something’s gone wrong. Organized pandemonium ruled the foyer. The entire building buzzed, queries and commands shouted from all directions. Miranda saw Father Al and the other elderly priests being ushered out the front door along with the household staff. As the Mission Church bell began to peal, all the pieces of the puzzle fell into place.
They were mobilizing for an attack.
She followed Doug up the stairs to and through the door to Walter’s office. Walter was on the phone, his voice insistent.
“What happened?” Miranda asked as soon as the door shut behind her.
“The Council knows,” Doug answered. “How much I’m not sure, but they know something. We were attacked by Council Security as we were leaving. We barely made it out of Palo Alto.”
“Did you get them? Are they okay?”
“Yeah, they’re fine. Connor’s getting them settled, then he’ll be right over. We had to drag her out of the house, so the kids were scared and crying, and then Council Security showed up. Palo Alto hasn’t seen that kind of shoot-out in, well, ever.” Doug laughed almost merrily, his upbeat nature refusing to surrender, even now, but his countenance sobered as he continued. “I think they figured out Mario’s connection to what happened with you on the Expressway.”
Miranda’s foreboding blossomed into full-blown dread. “He’s not back yet.”
“I know, and we have to leave. If they weren’t mobilizing before, they are now.”
Walter hung up the phone. “All the militia units have been activated,” he said, voice tense. Miranda could see the strain and worry around his eyes as he cursed under his breath. “Is there any word from Mario?”
Miranda shook her head.
He went there injured because of me.
“No,” Doug said, “nothing.”
“Then we have to assume he’s been captured. Goddammit!” Walter slammed his fist on the desk so hard that Miranda flinched. Such an uncharacteristic display of anger unnerved her. “You’re going to have to go now, in the dark! In the goddammed fecking dark!”
“We’ve been in tough spots before and got through them, Walter,” Doug said. “We’ll get through this one, too. It will be all right.”
“It’s not all right,” Walter grumbled, “but there’s nothing to be done for it.” He took a deep breath, then directed his attention to Miranda. “Are the vehicles ready to go?”
“We’re getting there,” she said, “but we’re not even through everything Harold sent. Two hours more to finish and get people ready.”
“Make it an hour, a ghrá.” Walter tried to smile at her and failed.
Miranda left Walter’s office, her mind racing. If they didn’t have Mario, they didn’t have the serum, and they could not make the preventative vaccine without it. Doug had told her that Mario didn’t think Henry Chan was getting anywhere trying to synthesize it on his own.
We need both vaccines to break the Council’s monopoly, she thought, post-bite alone won’t be enough to change things.
She felt helpless. Mario had blown his cover trying to save her. She was the reason he went to GeneSys injured. If he died, it would be her fault, and if they failed, nothing would change. Instead of deliverance, humanity would still be at the mercy of the Council and it would be her fault.
“Stop it,” she said out loud. “Stop it and get a grip. Don’t crack up now, you idiot. Father Walter is depending on you.”
Miranda returned to the garage and began lugging gear up the ramp one-handed since the Humvees were too tall for the garage entrance. Even as she answered questions and gave directions, her thoughts kept circling back to Mario and what she had learned…today? Had she really only found out today? It felt like everything she had done since that moment had made the situation worse.
And then they were stowing the last box into a Humvee. She glanced at her watch, surprised to see it was not quite eleven. They were almost ready.
“You’re done?” a voice called from behind her.
Still standing in the rain, she turned back to see Connor jogging toward her. She could not believe how happy she was to see him, but guilt crept over her. She had not spared him a thought the last few hours. She had been too preoccupied worrying about Mario. That jerk didn’t deserve her worry, even though they needed what he was trying to get.
“I hear Palo Alto got a little exciting.”
Connor stopped in front of her and took her hands in his, careful to squeeze only her uninjured hand. Miranda leaned into him. She needed to feel something real, something good. She needed to feel him, even if it made her feel self-conscious to stand there in an embrace. There were people everywhere, swarming in and out like bees from a hive. It seemed like everyone at SCU knew the details of her private life, including how badly she had lost it when she learned the truth about how Mario had deceived her. She had seen the surreptitious glances at her hand and heard the murmurs when people thought she was out of earshot.
Connor made a grumbling sound of annoyance as they ducked under the overhang at the bottom of the ramp.
“I know you told me Emily never left the place but Jesus… I thought I might have to deck her. We’d never have run into Council Security if she hadn’t been such a pain in the ass.”
“But you’re okay, right?”
Connor smiled. “Of course I am.”
“Don’t be too hard on her, Connor. She can’t help it. Besides, it’s better we know about the Council.” Miranda wiped at her face as she led him to th
e stairs but her hand only moved the wet around. “I need to let Father Walter know the vehicles are ready and check in with Naomi and Gabe.” At Connor’s quizzical expression, she added, “Our medic and gunner.”
The door to Walter’s office stood ajar. As Miranda pushed it open, the antiseptic smell of rubbing alcohol made her nose twitch and she knew.
Mario had made it back.
The reading lamp on Walter’s desk cast a bright puddle of light that left the rest of the room in half-shadow. Mario sat slumped in the chair next to Walter’s desk. Doc Owen knelt beside him; scissors, bloody gauze, and a twisted piece of shrapnel were heaped on a tray beside him. Doc’s brow furrowed in concentration as he irrigated a wound on Mario’s arm.
What Miranda could see of Mario’s face around the ice pack he held against it was drawn and mud splattered. His filthy wet shirt crumpled on the floor atop a pile of bloody rags. The bandages around his ribs were soaked and mud-smeared, and his hair clung to his scalp.
Relief that had nothing to do with their mission washed over her.
Father Walter looked up at her. “What is it?”
Miranda looked at Walter for a second. “When did he get here?”
“About fifteen minutes ago.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Mario lowered the ice pack. The bruises on his face were dark smudges. The sight of them made Miranda’s stiff knuckles throb.
“Not dead yet,” he said, wincing as Doc probed his bicep. “Maybe next time.”
“That’s not what I—”
She wanted to kill Mario, but she did not want him dead.
“Get out of my light,” Doc barked, giving Walter an irritated glance. “And you too, Tucci. Are you deaf?”
Miranda realized she was standing almost next to where Mario sat, but she did not remember crossing the room. She retreated like an errant child.
“He’ll live,” Doc muttered, as if his patient’s prognosis aggravated him. “For how long I can’t say but this won’t kill him.”
Doc applied a topical medicine and began wrapping up Mario’s arm. The bandage glowed like a star against his iodine-stained skin. Doc retrieved a syringe and an antibiotic from his bag and gave Mario a shot in his other arm.
