Rabbit would ruin them all.
Right before he got the chance to save the world.
4 | Subject 8
“Check out what’s on the rest of the drive,” Strike said.
“Working on it,” Keene said.
They had both temporarily forgotten about the rasping, half-dead woman at their feet. The contents of the drive had proved far more interesting.
Keene blinked and reached out to touch the computer’s screen. A rippling animation washed over the image as his finger made contact with the glass.
Master Folder is Locked. Level 8 Clearance Required.
The logo in the center of the screen read Project Atlantis. It had the flavor of a secret government organization, or some clandestine corporate entity who provided services to such a cabal.
Keene pressed cancel and returned to the only thing he could access.
The image was vaguely reminiscent of Da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man, if such a piece were combined with 21st century biological analytics and rendered via animated computer wireframe. A human body transformed over the course of fifteen seconds, evolving as various biological markers were altered. What started as an outline of a relatively unimpressive and normal young woman became an agile and muscular weapon.
From terrier to frothing jackal in a quarter minute flat.
The rendering, while impressively expensive looking, wasn’t what fascinated Keene and Strike. Their initial shock came from a few little words floating in the bottom left corner of the screen.
Subject 8. First Ruby Rattlesnake dose administration. Real-time results.
He looked down at the mysterious woman curled up on the hard floor. A rat sniffed at her earlobe with ginger curiosity.
Keene reached over and shooed the vermin away before it complicated the situation further by giving her the plague. He got down on one knee to check the stranger’s pulse. Thready and a little jumpy, but not in danger of stopping any time soon.
He looked at the two words and barcode tattooed on her wrist.
What the hell did they do to you, Subject 8?
“We need to patch her up,” Strike said. She was across the room, looking out the windows. “And jet.”
“You make it sound so easy.”
“Whoever she is, someone’s after her.”
Keene ripped off the woman’s blood-soaked gray T-shirt, revealing a set of diamond-cut abs that quivered with each halting breath. He flung the ruined shirt over his shoulder into a dingy corner.
“She needs a doctor,” Keene said. He looked up to where Strike had been before. But she’d disappeared.
“Turn her over.” Strike appeared from his backside and dropped an orange first aid kit beside him. Keene jumped a little bit.
“Could you not do that?”
“Just turn her over.”
Keene rolled the woman on to her uninjured side and Strike pointed at the torn up arm. “Look.”
“Two gunshot wounds.”
“One’s a through and through.” Strike joined him on the ground. “And the collarbone, that looks all right. A lot of fracturing, not much blood.”
“Okay, if it’s that easy, hold her down.”
“I took a wound treatment class at the academy.”
“I’m closer to the kit.” Keene took a gauze pad, ripped open the plastic between his teeth, and spit out the debris. It fluttered off and settled into the woman’s mess of hair. The black spikes looked greasy. One tip appeared to have been haphazardly shorn off.
“Good talk.” Strike eased the injured woman down on her back, then pressed against Subject 8’s good shoulder.
Keene poured a generous amount of rubbing alcohol on the first wound. The woman’s eyes shot open, and a strong grip seized Keene’s forearm. Her short nails dug so far into his skin that little trickles of blood began to dribble down his wrist.
He clawed at the vise-grip with his free hand, but the woman refused to let go. Her silver eyes emitted pure energy and focus. Meeting her gaze was like staring at an eclipse without proper eyewear.
Then her eyes rocketed shut and the grip relaxed.
Keene bandaged the triceps wound, then took care of the collarbone, removing what flecks of splintered metal he could.
“Hold this.” He gave Strike a pen light from the kit.
“Where?”
Keene pointed inside the bullet hole. Strike held it above, and he peered in. The bullet was lodged against the bone at an awkward angle. Little cracks in the white structure were apparent from where the bone had fractured on impact.
“I guess I should remove that,” Keene said.
“Don’t touch it.”
“But—”
“Trust me, dumbass. You don’t pull out a bullet unless it’s absolutely necessary.”
“She dies, it’s on you.”
“It’s on whoever shot her. Hand me the gauze.”
Keene did as he was told, and Strike took care of the final patch job. He leaned back and sighed. Strike didn’t seem to share his relief.
“How much time before someone comes looking?” Keene said.
“None.”
“None?”
“You design something perfect for combat, it’d be this.” Strike glanced down at the woman, who was again beginning to stir. “This girl doesn’t work at Nordstrom’s. Hell, she doesn’t even work for the FBI or the cops. This Project Atlantis group, whoever they are, you can damn well bet they’re top-tier, off-the-grid, black-ops shit. Whoever she’s running from is dangerous. They want her dead before breakfast.”
She gave a slight nod toward the dark sky lurking outside the dirty windows. Like whoever this secret group was, they were combing the entire city for their missing genetic experiment right now.
“Damn.”
“Shot twice, broken collarbone, comes here breathing so deep that you know she ran at a dead sprint? That’s goddamn insane.” Strike shook her head and knelt down, rolling up the cuffs of the stranger’s sweatpants. “And see these scars?”
Strike pointed at Subject 8’s knees, then to her arms and torso.
“That a lot?”
“There must be twenty of them. Thirty. Gunshot wounds, stab wounds. Burn marks. This chick’s been through some shit. But she’s given worse. Way worse.”
A chill settled deep into Keene’s bones, the way she said it. “You can tell all that by some scars?”
“There were fifty girls in my class at Quantico. Maybe half that made it through. Tough as shit. Could kick your ass back to whatever black hole you popped out of.”
“It was cryogenic stasis—”
“Point is, this girl would break every person in that class, man or woman, in half. No problem.”
“She’s not even awake.”
“In half.”
“Even you?”
“Wouldn’t be a fight,” Strike said.
“That must be hard.”
“What must be hard?”
“Admitting someone else is better.”
“It keeps you alive when you know who you shouldn’t fuck with.”
She looked right at Keene.
He smiled.
She did not.
“So what do we do with the drive?” Keene said.
“We keep it safe and figure out what’s on it.”
“Maybe it’s worth something.”
“It’s worth more than money.”
“What do you mean,” Keene said.
“It’s worth our lives.”
He didn’t know how to feel about that revelation, so instead he chewed on the bottom of his lip.
“It is beautiful, yes?”
Strike and Keene both jumped at the sound of another voice. No longer slurring her words, the woman now spoke pristine and frightenin
gly robotic English.
“How are you…?” Keene said, unable to finish the sentence.
“Awake? That is a long story. Too long for right now.” Subject 8 winced and touched her thigh. “It is activated.”
“What’s activated?” Strike said. Her arms were folded and her brow was furrowed. Keene almost smiled. Even though this lab specimen could apparently break her in half, his partner wasn’t stepping down.
Maybe this enterprise was going to work out after all.
“My kill-switch geo-tracker.” The woman’s body stiffened. “They are here.”
“I don’t hear anyone,” Strike said.
“If we stay, you die.”
“To be clear, I saved you,” Keene said, perturbed by the sudden segue into death and imminent invaders. “Well, it was a group effort, but—”
“He’s a moron,” Strike said. “So why come to us?”
“You are treasure hunters, yes? The legendary Kip Keene and his partner Samantha Strike?”
“I do like the sound of that,” Keene said. “I think legend describes me well.”
“Wait a second. Why the hell am I just a partner?”
Subject 8 shrugged. “I do not know these things. Only what I read in the FBI’s database. Big file.” She held her hands apart as far as they would go. “They do not like you very much.”
“How do you know about that?”
“We have their files. Unofficial, official, who knows how. Commander Owens is very persuasive. And willing to steal from the government.”
“I don’t like this,” Strike said. Her arms were still crossed. “Not one damned bit.”
“I will go, then. My drive, can I have it back?” She extended her arm—the bad one—with a faint trace of discomfort.
“Excuse me,” Keene said. “Not to interrupt this wonderful conversation, but I think we’re glossing over one small thing.”
Both women looked at him. He rubbed his cheek and cleared his throat. No words came out.
“Yes?”
Both women spoke in unison.
This was what he really needed. Two insane women around who could kick his ass. But what was onscreen was compelling, and jobs were scarce, so Keene said, “Your name. We don’t even know your name.”
“I was Valentina,” the woman said. “Then Subject 8. But now they call me Rabbit.”
“Rabbit?” Strike said.
“Yes, like the animal.”
“I know what a frigging rabbit is.”
The lights cut out and the supercomputer’s monitors went dark.
“It is them,” Rabbit said. “As I told you.”
“Who?” Keene said, with a small shiver. Excitement was good. Death, however, was not.
Gunfire burst through the windows, shattering the glass.
“Commander Owens.”
5 | Visitors
Crack.
The wooden entrance to the bottom floor of the converted office building broke.
“Should’ve invested in a little security,” Keene said. He peered into the darkness, waiting for his eyes to adjust.
“Too late now,” Strike said. “We need some damn light.”
The shouts downstairs grew louder. It wouldn’t be long until Rabbit’s handlers flooded the hall, banging on the long row of rent-an-offices.
Keene fumbled on the ground for the pen light, his hands running blind over the rough concrete. High beams cut in from outside, along with a strobing searchlight. The sudden illumination made him squint.
But it also allowed him to find the pen light, which he pocketed just in case.
Another high-wattage searchlight joined the first, the ghostly beams crisscrossing through the grimy panes as they swept over the building.
“Get down,” Rabbit said, pulling Strike to the ground. “Not safe.”
“Well no shit it’s not safe,” Strike said.
“Police,” a voice outside the door said. “We have information regarding a dangerous fugitive. Open up.”
“I bet you are,” Strike said, racking the slide on her pistol and aiming it head-high at the door. She nodded towards the gun cabinet in the corner. “We have shotguns. A couple rifles. Take your pick.”
Rabbit shook her head. “You do not understand.”
“I understand to aim for the head.”
“And the snipers that are staring through the window? You did not hear them climbing into position?”
Keene and Strike shot each other matching bewildered looks in the blinking darkness.
“Snipers?” Keene shrunk closer to the ground. “You know, I think I’m with our spirit animal friend here. Run like hell, live another day.”
“So what’s our play,” Strike said. “Since these are your friends coming to kill us.”
“A distraction,” Rabbit said. “Otherwise, they will shoot you in the head to get to me.”
“What did you have in mind?” Strike said.
“Your gun.”
“Hell no.”
“Or we die,” Rabbit said. She held her hand out. “And we need an alternate escape route.”
“Only option is the fire escape.” Strike handed the pistol over. “Hope everyone likes heights.”
She pointed at the ceiling, where an inconspicuous latch hung down from a small door.
“It will do,” Rabbit said. She ripped out the drawstring from her sweatpants and took off both of her boots. Then she took the clip out of the pistol and popped each bullet out so that they littered the ground.
During the entire process, she kept low, never rising past a crouch. The elaborate workstation and series of monitors kept the group’s position hidden from sniper scopes. Keene was glad that his massive investment had at least provided them with ample cover in their moment of dire need.
At least, that was what he was hoping.
He covered his ears as Rabbit brought the pistol down on a bullet tip to crack the casing. A grayish powder spilled out on the concrete
Rabbit tapped it into the boot, then repeated the process with the remaining eight bullets, splitting the powder between each. Then she tied each boot off tight with its laces, sealing the home-made bombs shut. She snaked a piece of the drawstring into a tight crevice at the top.
“Will that work?” Keene said.
“Oh no, not that shit,” Strike said. “Last time someone did something like this, I almost got buried alive.”
“Matches?” Rabbit said.
“In the desk,” Keene said. “She smokes when she’s angry. Which is most of the time.”
“Doubtful,” Strike said, before adding with an upturned lip, “Bottom right drawer.”
Pounding from outside. “This is your final warning. We will apprehend the suspect by force if necessary.”
Rabbit lit the fuse and cracked a grin. “Ready to go?”
Then she threw it through the window before anyone could answer, followed by its mate.
The crashing glass was accompanied by the office lights returning.
One amenity the building did have was a backup generator. An explosion sounded outside, then another. Alarms blared.
The only thing he really heard, though, was one word from Rabbit.
“Move.”
6 | In Case of Emergency
By the time Keene’s vision had returned, Rabbit had already dragged a tall folding metal ladder from the corner and positioned it beneath the ceiling hatch.
The searchlights had, far as he could discern, disappeared.
“Where’d the ladder come from?” Keene said. He tried to concentrate on the escape plan, rather than imagining what all the shouting and footsteps circling around the buildings from all angles meant.
He could, however, see orange flames reflected in the dirtied office windows.
> “Some of us listened during the office tours,” Strike said.
“Why would anyone listen?”
“No idea. Help me.”
Keene and Strike expanded the ladder to its full height while Rabbit grabbed armaments from the gun cabinet. He noted that the enclosure’s lock was in two pieces on the floor.
Apparently this woman didn’t require a key.
Strike tested the ladder. It held. She scrambled up the rungs like she was born to climb trees and jimmied the latch to the attic. A shower of dust came down from the ceiling onto Keene’s head.
He jumped back and would’ve voiced a grievance, but the hallway had him bothered.
Everything had gone dead silent, the throbbing hum of panicked voices flat lining into an eerie emptiness. The faintest sounds of metropolitan life came snaking through the ruined window panes, along with a late-winter chill.
But the building itself sounded like a ghost town.
“Give her a hand, would you?” Strike said, her voice distant, way up in the rafters. “If she needs it.”
Keene raised an eyebrow towards Rabbit, who only said “I’m all right” with steely conviction. She took the rungs two at a time, a rifle clattering against her back, busted arm not slowing her progress at all.
Her disappearance into the alcove left Keene alone.
The office had the aura of a chapel, with the tall ceilings, the pristine quiet, the orange light refracted across the room through the busted, grimy windows. And the thought crossed his mind, amidst the eternal silence, that he was about to drop into the first circle of hell if he stuck around down here much longer.
“Need an invitation?” Strike’s head peeked out from the crevice, upside down like a monkey hanging from a branch.
“There’s something going on in the hall,” Keene said, realizing how dumb the words sounded when they escaped his lips. That much was obvious. That was why they were all running like hell, interrupting a perfectly boring evening.
“Good to know.” Strike rolled her eyes, which made for a disconcerting visual effect while hanging upside down.
The Kip Keene Box Set: Books 1, 2 & 3 Page 18
