by J. R. Ward
Sure enough, the gun wasn't far, and Ad knew for a fact that it had been reloaded after the showdown in the forest. Still, it wasn't like the forty was capable of doing anything more than annoy him.
"You off to somewhere?" Ad asked.
Moving fast, the man sat down on the edge of the bed and shoved his feet into those black Nikes. "You always so good with doors?"
"I'm good with a lot of things."
Matthias paused. "You're limping, you know that?"
Ad shrugged. "Bad foot."
"Bullshit."
"I've said all I'm going to."
Matthias cursed as he got up to collect his wallet and windbreaker. "Okay, fine. But we've got to leave--the cops are on the way. Or will be shortly."
"Why?"
"Mels is going to them right now--she figured out that Jim and I got busy in the basement here the other night. My memory's back, by the way."
"Everything?"
"Yup."
Shit. "Congratulations."
"Not really." The man was speaking quick and concisely. "Listen, Jim said I'm going to face a crossroads?"
Ad nodded. "What happened to your girl?"
"She figured out who I really was."
"That's so not going to help us."
"Well, the eye-opener helped her, and that's more important. I should never have been with the woman."
On that note, Matthias got quiet, and yeah, wow, you could practically smell the wood burning.
"I know what I have to do," he said after a moment. "It's the only way...to make things right. I know exactly what to do."
Ad let his head fall back in frustration. What this situation did not need was any more bright ideas.
"We've gotta blow this place," Matthias said, as he stalked to the door. "But first, a little breaking and entering on the way out."
"Isn't that an oxymoron?"
As the guy just walked into the hallway, Adrian cursed and snagged the cane from where it was by the television built-in thingy.
Turned out it was a good call--the old-man affect increased his speed. Hard to get used to needing the thing, however.
Not really his style.
As Matthias hit the emergency exit into the stairwell, and started descending the concrete steps, Mels's voice dogged him.
It was lies, all of it--wasn't it.
That one sentence, over and over again, like a repeating rifle--or a machine gun--until he prayed for the amnesia to come back.
The tragedy was that nothing around how he'd felt about her had been anything less than the God's honest truth. Same with the physical condition he'd been in, and his sense of where he'd been...and where he was in danger of returning.
But over the course of his life? Shit, yeah, there had been too many deceptions to count.
And that was what he was going to take care of.
With him leaving her as she had, and his memory now back in full force, there was no way he couldn't do something about the web of lies and evil he'd spun for so long.
This was indeed the reckoning he'd earned, and he was damn well going to pay the price...and do the right thing. Finally.
Keeping up the quick, silent pace down the stairwell, it dawned on him that his partner in crime, so to speak, was probably not making the kind of time he was. Which was so fucked-up. Glancing over his shoulder, he--
Matthias stopped dead and gripped the rail.
The bastard behind him was hovering about three inches over the stairs, ghosting above them like he had anti-gravity shoes on.
"What are you?" Matthias breathed.
Instantly, the man's combat boots went terra firma. "Nothing special."
"Bullshit."
"Aren't we running from the cops? Do you really want to do this now?"
Guy had a point, but there was a lot at stake. If only in the mental-health department. "Just answer me one thing. Which side are you on? And before you hit me with another round of 'no BFD,' I know where I've been--and I'm not talking about the Middle East."
"I'm on the side that thinks it's good."
"Which tells me nothing. Even the devil believes he's right."
"She's not."
"She, huh." As the guy shrugged like they were talking about sports...or cars...or the Thursday-night lineup on NBC, Matthias cursed softly. "So you know the devil, and you're just a normal guy. You assume all of my injuries, internal and otherwise, and you're nothing special."
The roommate lifted one shoulder again, and looked utterly unconcerned with whatever mind-fuck Matthias was rocking.
It was lies, all of it--wasn't it.
"You know," Matthias said roughly, "I've heard about the devil--that he--that she is a great liar."
"It's the only thing you can trust."
"Guess I got that in common with her."
"You do, but times change, don't they."
"How does Jim Heron fit into this?"
Adrian exhaled like he was ancient. "Worry about yourself, Matthias. That's the only advice I can give you--just do the right thing, even if it hurts."
Matthias focused on that cloudy eye--which had been his own just twelve hours ago. "Speaking from firsthand experience?"
"Not at all. Now, shouldn't we be running from the CPD?"
Abruptly, he thought about the night with Mels. Shit had ended so very badly, but the night...and everything that had had to do with her...had helped him find his soul. Without that, and without her, he would have just left Caldwell--and his past--behind.
"Thank you," Matthias murmured. "I owe you."
"I don't know what the fuck you're talking about."
Clearly, he was knocking on a door that was locked, dead-bolted, chained, and barred. Fine. He knew how that was--gratitude could be harder to bear than pain.
At least he knew what to do. There was just one more thing....
"Is Jim like you," he demanded.
The guy looked like he was so done with the talking, he was ready to scream, but tough shit.
"Tell me," Matthias barked. "I gotta have some kind of solid in this."
Adrian rubbed his jaw. "You can talk to Jim about that--when this is over, 'kay? Right now, my job is to keep you alive so that you can do the right thing when it comes along. I can't tell you how important this is. Just do the right damn thing for once in your miserable existence."
"Roger that," Matthias said, turning away and taking off once more.
Several blocks over from the Marriott, in the CCJ newsroom, Mels sat in her musical chair, rocking back and forth to the tune of "Yankee Doodle." Her e-mail account was up on her computer monitor, and periodically the auto send/receive coughed another couple of entries into her in-box. The screensaver came on at regular intervals, too, and each time the rainbow-colored bubbles appeared, she'd reach out, fuss the mouse, and keep things alive.
The only call she'd made since she'd come in had been to Tony's contact down in the CSI lab. She'd told him that she'd called Detective de la Cruz and made a statement about everything.
She'd been hoping the phone would ring at any minute with an update on the situation, but de la Cruz and his team were no doubt busy down at the hotel, searching an empty room.
Matthias was long gone--
"Psst."
Shaking herself, she glanced across the aisle. Tony was leaning forward in his seat with a Ding Dong in his palm, offering the little wheel of chemical, chocolaty glory like it was a diamond. "You look like you could use this."
"Thanks." She forced a smile--and thought, What the hell. Maybe a load of sugar and preservatives would wake her up out of this stupor. "Not myself today."
"I can tell. You've been sitting there staring at that screen for the last hour."
"Lot of e-mail to read."
"Then why haven't you been reading it?"
Popping the seal on the Hostess bomb and biting into the thing, the outer shell flaked and sent bits and pieces into her lap. Before they melted and fused at the molecular level
with the fabric of her slacks, she picked them off and flicked them into the wastepaper basket.
Man, Ding Dongs tasted delicious.
Better munching through chemistry.
"Hey, listen, Tony...I know we've never really talked career stuff, but do you have an endgame with this paper? I mean, is this the place where you see yourself staying for the rest of your working life?"
Her buddy shrugged. "I don't think a lot about that shit. I just work on my articles, do my digging--I'm chill with the future. If this is all I have? I'm good." He grabbed a Ho Ho for himself and stripped off its wrapper. "But I've been waiting for you to pull out."
"From Caldwell? Really?"
"Yup." He took a bite. "You've never settled in. Made the contacts. Kept them going."
He was right, of course. And maybe that was why she hadn't really accomplished as much as she'd wanted to in the last couple of years. Yes, Dick was a prick and a confirmed member of the old boy club, but it was possible she'd been hiding behind that as an excuse for phoning things in.
"I think I want to go back to New York City." Actually, take out the "think," she realized with a jolt. "It's time."
Her mother was okay; Mels was the one who needed direction. And she had a feeling that would be "south."
"You're a damn good reporter." Tony took another bite. "And you're under-utilized here--I think Dick knows it."
"He and I have never gotten along."
"That's true of him and women, generally." Tony crushed the wrapper and tossed it. "So, what are you going to do? You got any in's down in Manhattan?"
Opening up her drawer, she took out a card she'd stuffed in there the day she'd moved to the desk. It read, PETER W. NEWCASTLE, FEATURES EDITOR--and had the iconic New York Times masthead right under his title.
Back in the day, she'd met Peter in and around Manhattan, and he was still at the Times. She'd seen his name just last Sunday.
"Yeah, I think I do," she murmured. "Hey, speaking of leaving, I have something I'd like to give you."
"Lunch, I hope?"
She laughed a little. "Tragically, no."
Kicking herself out of neutral, she opened up her e-file on all the research she'd done on those missing person cases. Staring at the words she'd typed, the tables she'd made, the references she'd listed, she couldn't help thinking that all this was what she'd been doing before the storm had rolled through her life.
Memories of Matthias rose like spikes breaking through skin, the pain making her short of breath.
Closing her eyes briefly, she told herself to get a grip.
"It's coming over e-mail," she said gruffly.
Tony snagged a Twinkie and swiveled in the direction of his computer screen.
A moment later, she heard him mutter under his breath and then he turned back around to her. "This is...incredible. Absolutely incredible--I've never seen...How long have you been gathering all this? And what's your angle? Who are your--wait, you aren't turning this over to me exclusively, are you?"
Mels smiled sadly and nodded. "Think of it as my going away present. You've been so generous with me ever since I started. And maybe you can get further with it than I could." She glanced at his screen, seeing all of the work she'd done. "I've been stalled out, but I have a feeling that it's going to be in good hands with you. If anyone can crack the truth behind those disappearances, it's you."
As Tony's eyes went even wider, she knew she'd done the right thing--for herself, for him...and most important, for all those missing boys out there, those souls that had somehow, inexplicably, disappeared into the Caldwell night.
Tony was going to find the answer. Somehow.
As Matthias strode down a carpeted hallway in the ground floor, employees-only part of the hotel, he walked with his head up and his arms swinging casually at his sides. Passing by open doors, he read the little plaques next to each one, and checked out various administrative, human resources, and accounting personnel, all of whom were working hard, talking on their phones, typing on their computers.
Busy, busy. Which was perfect if you were looking to infiltrate somewhere where you didn't belong. The key was walking with purpose, like an appointment was waiting for you, and making eye contact in a casual, bored manner. That combination, even more than a suit and tie, was critical: You didn't want to give any of the worker bees an excuse or opportunity to get off their asses and get in the way.
Thank God Adrian had agreed to hang in the lobby. Someone like him, with those piercings, was a billboard for Duck Out of Water in this situation.
As Matthias went along, he knew that sooner or later he was going to find what he was looking for: a vacant computer that was networked into the Marriott's big database. And what do you know, bingo presented itself three doors down in the form of an empty office with a full desk setup: The little plaque detailing who belonged in there had been slid out of its holder, and there were no personal effects on the desk, no coat hanging in the corner--no window, either. Better solution than he'd expected.
Slipping inside and closing the door, he thought it would have helped if he'd had access to the resources of XOps--nothing like a badge with your picture and an IT title on it to smooth over any inquiries. As it was, all he had was a loaded gun with a silencer.
Sitting in the cushiony leather office chair, part of him was very clear that everyone was expendable, that if anybody walked in while he was working, he was going to shoot them and drag the body under the desk.
But God, he prayed it didn't come to that for more reasons than one.
Bending down, he hit the switch on the CPU and cut the boot-up off before the inevitable password-protected sign-in screen flashed. Going in under the operating system's radar, he took control, scrambled the IP address, and jumped onto the World Wide Web.
The XOps computer system was a monolith set up by the best experts he'd been able to recruit, whether they'd been MIT graduates, fifteen-year-old arrogant little shits, or multinational hackers--and each and every one of those big brains had been silenced by means of leverage...or the cold embrace of the earth.
After all, the builders of your castle knew your secret escapes--and he'd especially not wanted anyone in the organization to be aware of the hidden path he now took into the network.
Eventually, someone would probably discover he'd snuck in and out using a ghost admin account, but it would be weeks, months--maybe not ever--
He was in.
A quick check of the clock in the corner of the screen told him he had no more than sixty seconds before he ran the risk of being identified as a concurrent user.
He needed less than thirty.
Putting his hand in his pocket, he took out the SanDisk he'd bought on the way here from the gift shop. Punching the thing into the USB port in the front of the machine, he initiated a data download that was nuclear in its scope, but relatively self-contained in terms of bytes.
Not a lot of operatives, after all, and their missions were short and to the point.
And talk about intel--the files were the lynchpin of his self-protective exit strategy: he'd set up this comprehensive information cache, along with its auto-updating function, the moment the XOps computer systems had been put into service. It was just as important as the weapons and the cash he'd hidden in New York. And London. And Tangier. And Dubai. And Melbourne.
In his business, the emperor stayed on the throne only as long as he could hold on to his power--and you could never be sure when your base was going to erode.
In fact, the return of his memory told him all about how he'd guarded his influence, hoarded it, nurtured it, kept himself alive and in control...until he'd begun to stink from the filth of his deeds; until his soul--or what little of a one he'd had--had withered and died; until he'd become so emotionless he was practically an inanimate object; until he'd realized that death was the only way out, and better that he choose the time and the place.
Like in a desert, in front of a witness...with a bomb that
he'd rigged to do the job.
Guess he hadn't been in control of everything, though, because Jim Heron hadn't left him where he'd lain and so he hadn't died according to schedule.
Without Heron's interference, though, he wouldn't have eventually met Mels.
And he wouldn't be using this information in the way he was going to.
This felt like the better outcome.
Except for the losing Mels part, that was.
Just before he signed out, an abiding curiosity got to him. With a quick shift, he pulled out of his shadow account and his little secret locker of information--and signed in for real, using an account he had set up for one of his administrators about six months ago.
It was still active. And the password hadn't been changed--which was stupid.
Going into the personnel database, he typed in a name and hit return.
In the center of the gray screen, a tiny hourglass spun slowly, and seemed to do that weightless rotation forever. In reality, it was probably less than a second or two. The data that flashed next was Jim Heron's profile, and Matthias quickly scanned the orderly notations.
He wasn't worried about this activity getting traced--and it would. Operatives were going to show up at this particular computer ASAP.
Naturally, they would know it was him, and they wouldn't be surprised.
The next profile he reviewed was his own, and he went back to Heron's again before he signed off. He wasn't sure exactly what was wrong, but something stuck with him, something that just wasn't right. No time to figure it out, however--at least not in this office.
Matthias jacked out and crushed the flashdrive in his fist. After shutting down the comp, he popped open the door, looked to the left and the right, and stepped into the hall. Walking off, he--
"Can I help you?" a female voice demanded.
He paused and turned around. "I'm looking for Human Resources? Am I in the right place?"
The woman was short and stocky, built on the lines of a dishwasher or maybe a file cabinet. She was dressed in a steel gray suit, too, and her hair was cut right at the jawline, like she felt as though she had to prove that she was all business, all the time.
"I'm the head of HR." Her eyes narrowed. "Who exactly are you here to see?"
"I'm applying for a waiter position in the restaurant? The front desk sent me here?"
"Oh for godsake." Ms. VP looked like she was going to boil over on the spot. "Again? I've told them not to refer you guys here."
