by C. E. Murphy
"We had to develop an armor that could stand up to the lasers if we wanted to be able to test the drone against live targets. It absorbs and dissipates most of the energy, although the knock-back is still a problem."
"But better than a burning hole through your stomach," Alisha said. "Now all you need to do is find a way to convert the absorbed energy into a battery pack for charging soldier-carried laser weapons."
Rafe shot her a startled look that turned to furrows of interest. Alisha's shoulders rounded in dismay as he paused to take a few quick notes on a phone he produced from inside his hip pocket. Good going, Leesh. Suggest a way to vastly improve the bad guys' system. But if they could do it—which they couldn't, once she'd delivered the schematics to the CIA and the virus she'd set had destroyed the rest—but if they could, it really would be a tremendously efficient war system.
Once she'd delivered the schematics. Alisha nodded like she was approving of Rafe's notes, but really she realized a plan had crystallized in the back of her mind. Brandon's project was just too big for an individual to take it out, at least without sufficient preparation. Extraction would require a team, and she could put that together once on the outside and back in contact with Greg. It would have to be swift and efficient, and they would have very little time to prepare. Even the slightest delay could compromise the materials inside the base, and with a second buyer coming in, Alisha couldn't risk it.
The door behind them swung open, ushering Brandon's words: "—will take place here. This is my assistant, Rafe Denison, and Elisa Moon."
"Another assistant?" The deep voice made a jolt of physical pain lance through Alisha's chest, just above her heart. She opened her fingers wide to prevent herself from rubbing it and swallowed against a thrill of sick panic as she turned.
"An interested party," she corrected, giving the dark-eyed man with Brandon a tight smile. His hair was even longer than it had looked when she'd caught sight of him at the Scottish observatory, tending toward a little curl. It suited him, giving him just a touch of impishness to temper the thin smirk he so often wore, like a promise that the bad boy could be tamed. Alisha's hands were cold as she offered one to him, an infuriating tell that he couldn't fail to notice.
Frank Reichart clicked his heels together and performed a short, sarcastic bow over her hand. "My apologies, Ms. Moon. It's a pleasure. Michael Clarke, at your service."
"Mr. Clarke," Alisha said neutrally, and turned away again, forcing her breathing to remain steady so that the hammering of her heart wouldn't be betrayed by the rapid-fire pulse in her throat. Brandon launched into a lecture, apparently oblivious to Alisha's discomfort, as he should be. It was the only thing in the mission that was going right. She listened and watched the room below as the demonstration began, recording detail without yet absorbing it.
Reichart was working for the Russians. Parker might be working for the Americans. The former, at least, could blow her cover with a single word, as easily as she could break his. The situation bordered on out of control.
No battle plan, Alisha thought wryly, survives the first encounter with the enemy.
Chapter 9
"Elisa—" Minutes later, Reichart hissed her alias down the hall at her, full of quiet urgency. She turned to face him, her jaw set as if the physical gestures would deny him anything he asked.
"Don't tell me you didn't know I was here," she said in as low a voice as he'd used. "What the hell are you doing here? The Russians, Frank?" She used his real name deliberately, taking out frustration and anger in the only way she could. "Did you follow me?"
"Off that cliff? Are you nuts? Elisa—"
Alisha rolled her eyes, an expression so violent she turned her whole head with it, cutting off the name with a jerk of her hand. Reichart bared his teeth, then set them and said, even more quietly, "Alisha." She could all but hear his unspoken, Are you happy now? in the pause before he continued. "I'm not here because of you—"
"Of course not," she snapped. "You're here for the money."
Reichart's nostrils flared, the only sign that he'd nearly taken the bait. "You're in over your head."
"I wasn't until you showed up and screwed the whole equation." It was a blatant lie, and worse, Reichart's expression gentled slightly, suggesting he knew it. "Who's Sicarii?" Alisha demanded, grateful for the confused surprise that wiped sympathy from his eyes.
"Alisha, this isn't the place—"
"No shit." Alisha flexed her fingers, trying to pull her emotions back under control. Reichart brought out the worst in her in the best of circumstances—and, she admitted sullenly, the best in the worst—but in the midst of a mission was not the place to let old anger get the best of her. She dropped her chin to her chest, lifting a hand, palm forward, to stop anything Reichart had to say. When she raised her eyes again, her breathing was steady, heartbeat calm. "Step back," she murmured. "You're in my personal space. Nobody who comes around a corner is going to think this is a casual conversation."
Reichart did as she asked, to her surprise and his credit. His shoulders straightened as he uncurled from the intense, hovering posture he'd held, though his frown stayed in place. Almost, Alisha thought, as if he was genuinely concerned. "How'd you know it was the Russians?"
"It doesn't matter."
"Meet me in Paris on Friday." Reichart's voice was low, deep enough to be hardly more than a rumble. "There's a lot to talk about, Alisha." He turned his head a fraction of an inch, hearing footsteps falling in the hall behind them. "Adequate?" he asked, amusement suddenly tracing his tone. "You're a hard woman to please, Ms. Moon. I thought the demonstration was more than adequate."
"You weren't here yesterday," Alisha replied coolly. "A malfunction in the programming decided I was the target. It was corrected, but I'm sure my employers are going to be cautious about artificially intelligent drones that make that kind of mistake. Don't forget that in the report to your own."
"Conspiring?" Brandon asked pleasantly as he came up to them. Alisha turned a brief, meaningless smile on him. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Reichart stiffen, and her smile deepened. The man couldn't possibly be jealous. No: he couldn't reasonably be jealous. But reason had little to do with jealousy.
"Comparing notes," she said. "Mr. Clarke thinks highly of your prototypes."
"Thus damning me with faint praise."
"Not at all," Alisha said. Never mind that she'd done just that a few moments earlier, and never mind the amused look Reichart gave her for the lie. "Despite yesterday's hitch, you know perfectly well it's an amazing machine."
"I hope you'll be telling your employers as much."
Alisha's gaze slid to Reichart. "You can count on it. For now, though…" She turned her wrist up, making a small show of looking at her watch. "I should get my things. The plane is at two." And with the plane went her chances to find a way to steal the half a dozen drones that were hidden beneath the base. Frustration surged through her, hot enough to make her feel as though she blushed.
"There's time for you to stay for the second demo, if you like. I have something of a surprise planned."
Alisha exchanged a look with Reichart, whose dark eyebrows rose as he turned the look onto Brandon. "I assume it's not one involving me being shot at?"
"Scout's honor," Brandon said. "Elisa?"
Reichart's eyes darkened at Parker's informality. Alisha, catching the faint change of expression, smiled. "How could I resist?"
"You couldn't. I'm irresistible. This way, please." Brandon offered Alisha his arm and she took it with a laugh.
"So noted."
It was petty, but she couldn't help enjoying the sensation of Reichart's gaze boring between her shoulder blades as Brandon escorted her down the hall.
#
The Attengee drones swarmed the broken wall, ratcheting legs and trifold feet locking together to pull each other up. Two, perched atop the wall, lay down fire, covering the others as they crossed into the battlefield. Alisha watched, lips parted wi
th astonishment, and turned to Brandon.
"They arrived last night," he said, the note of pride in his voice so smothered it was all the more obvious.
"You have a production facility?" Alisha asked, strain audible to her own ears. Brandon all but bounced on his toes as he gave a delighted nod. "That's considerably more development than we'd been led to believe." Alisha struggled to keep the distress out of her voice, though Reichart's sideways glance told her she didn't entirely succeed. At least sounding shaken helped keep her cover. Brandon should have no hint that she'd been in the bunkers the night before and had already seen his new stash of drones.
"I didn't want to show our hand until I was sure the first-run drones would work well." Brandon nodded again, pointing toward the squad of machines as they laced their way across the field and began scaling the mountainside. "You asked about their handling of rough terrain. I think this demonstrates their capabilities nicely."
"Extremely." Alisha dared a glance toward Reichart, whose expression was carefully schooled. Well enough that she thought he, too, was hiding surprise. Good. It was the least he deserved for showing up in the middle of her missions. His surprise helped level the playing field after her own shock at his arrival. "Your patrons have put a great deal of money into this, Brandon. I'm impressed. They must be very sure of turning an eventual profit."
"I think so." He flashed her a smile. "Not that I expect the CIA will be providing it."
Sound thunderclapped around Alisha's ears, a deep boom that made her feel as if she'd been hollowed out. She crinkled her forehead, privately astonished that her heart rate wasn't soaring, for all that every bit of her training taught her to stay cool in just such a situation. "The CIA?"
"Central Intelligence Agency," Brandon said, voice light and mocking. "I think you're familiar with it."
Alisha's eyebrows crinkled further, a deliberate expression of confusion that she hoped masked the impulse to reach out and throttle Frank Reichart. "Who isn't?"
"Don't embarrass us both, Alisha," Brandon murmured. Cold plunged through Alisha's hands, her feet itching with the need to move. "Did you really think I wouldn't know my father's protégé? I'm not that out of touch."
"Your father?" Alisha turned the adrenaline churning in her belly into bewilderment, filling her voice with it. "I know your father's CIA, Brandon. You used to be yourself. What does that have to do with me?" She could see Reichart taking a slow step backward, his hands partially lifted, as if to say he was not involved in the situation. It was possible, barely possible, Alisha acknowledged deep inside herself, that Brandon was telling the truth, and that Reichart hadn't betrayed her.
It was barely possible that pigs with wings might be pigeons, too.
It could wait. Who'd set her up was irrelevant, right now. Getting out was all that mattered, and there was no good way out: she didn't have to look around to verify that. The best chance might be across the minefield, up the mountains with the drones—and then there'd be the drones themselves to deal with. "Brandon—"
"Rafe." Brandon turned his head a fraction of an inch as he issued the one-word order that brought the Englishman forward.
"Ms. Moon," Rafe said apologetically. "If you'll come with me."
"Are you out of your mind?" Alisha turned toward Rafe, rocking her weight back, hands spread compliantly as she saw that he held a gun with easy competence. "You checked my credentials yourself."
"Brandon had some compelling evi—"
Alisha lashed out with a kick, smashing her toe into the joint nerve in Rafe's wrist. Her twisted ankle, shocked at the sudden impact, flared with pain as Rafe's fingers spasmed open. Alisha ducked forward, wrapping her hand around the barrel of the gun as it fell. She reversed it, sliding her hand over the grip and checking the safety—it had been on; it wasn't as she curved her arm around Rafe's neck and held the gun to his temple. "I have no idea what you're talking about," she said through clenched teeth. "Are we at an impasse?"
Brandon had taken one step forward in the time it took her to take Rafe hostage. Reichart stayed back, hands still held wide, though he watched her as intently as Parker did. Alisha wanted to shout He's FSB! Alisha wanted to shout, but knew it was useless. Brandon's mysterious contact had warned him that a Russian agent would be coming; he knew what Reichart was. And there was the very slightest chance Reichart would opt to help her, if she didn't out him.
She was better off counting on flying pigs.
"Alisha, you can't get out of this alive unless we agree to help one another," Brandon said.
"Elisa," Alisha said. Beyond Brandon, Reichart cast a faint smile at the platform floor. She saw his mouth move, and for all that she didn't hear anything, she knew what he said: Leesh. Rafe's fingers were curled against her arm, digging in. She could see his eyes were crushed shut, and felt his breath came short and quick over her arm. He didn't have the combat training that she—that any of the others—did, or he'd have thrown her already. "Drawing a gun on me is not a good way to earn my cooperation, Dr. Parker. How exactly do you think we can help each other?"
Brandon's voice was gentle, like he spoke to a frightened animal. "Well, right now you've got Rafe, and I've got your only way out of here. I think that might be one way to help one another."
Alisha barked laughter, not caring that Rafe flinched at the sharp sound in his ear. "I didn't think you were a hostage negotiator for the Agency, Parker."
"I wasn't," Brandon said in the same calming tone, "but we're all trained in it. You know that."
Alisha curled her lip into a snarl. "All I want is out of here." Fourth objective, part of her mind whispered. Determine if Brandon Parker is a clear and present danger and be prepared to terminate. She could certainly fulfill that part of her mission right now.
But it wouldn't get her out of there alive. "I'm listening."
"We'll take a Jeep. All three of us." Brandon's voice was soothing. "Rafe will board the plane with you."
Rafe's eyes flew open, shock making his body go rigid in Alisha's grip. "It's all right," Brandon said to him. "She won't hurt you unless she's forced to. Unnecessary casualties don't look good on CIA records."
"Then what makes you think she'll shoot him now?" Reichart asked, faint amusement in his deep voice.
It didn't matter if he'd been the one to betray her to Brandon or not, Alisha decided. She was going to shoot him on general principle.
"I don't," Brandon said softly. "But she's in a corner, and I'd rather not have Rafe's brains splattered over the field if I'm wrong."
"You have a deal," Alisha interrupted. "But one thing." She nodded over Rafe's shoulder, toward the distant drones. "Shut them all down and give me the remote."
Annoyed admiration flashed through Brandon's eyes. "I hoped you wouldn't remember them."
Alisha smirked. "Not likely." She waggled the gun a centimeter or two, still keeping it against Rafe's temple. "Turn them off. Give me the remote. And tie him up." She nodded toward Reichart. "Then we go."
"Me?" Reichart's voice rose. "What'd I do?"
"As if you have to ask," Alisha muttered. "For caution's sake," she said aloud. "I don't know whose side you're on, and I'd rather not have a squadron of soldiers waiting for me down at the airport."
Resigned exasperation crossed Reichart's face, as clear as words saying you're enjoying this, aren't you? Brandon curled a lip in irritation, then followed Alisha's orders. Rafe sagged against her, relief obvious in the lines of his body. He hadn't been sure—Alisha hadn't been sure—that Brandon would negotiate with what amounted to a terrorist.
He started it, Alisha thought childishly. She heard him mutter, "Sorry," to Reichart, who shrugged acceptance and sat down against a platform post so Brandon could lash him in place. He cut Alisha one sharp glance through dark eyelashes, and she twitched an eyebrow back, acknowledging that he hadn't caused the kind of trouble he was more than capable of. He lifted his shoulders in a minute shrug and thumped his head back against the post as Brandon turn
ed away. Alisha almost wished she could be there when Brandon returned, as she was certain Reichart would be gone, and she wanted to see Brandon's face
Brandon offered her the remote, but she nudged Rafe to take it. "You two first." Her voice was rough, nerves stressing it. They filed down the ladder and she jumped down after them, absorbing the impact with her knees and grimacing as her ankle objected. Brandon tensed, precursor to action, and Alisha straightened, gun held low but threatening. "Don't," she said. "Just don't."
He managed a brief smile. "Can't blame me for trying."
"Yes." The word came out flat. "I can." Her stomach twisted in a sour knot. Too much had gone wrong, with too many ramifications to consider, at least until she no longer had a Damocles sword hanging over her. Alisha jerked the gun toward the distant Jeep.
"Let's go."
Chapter 10
The plane taking Alisha out of Kazakhstan theoretically belonged to her employer, and as such, was theoretically sacrosanct. With her cover blown, though, there was little, save the hostage she'd taken, to make them allow her to even board the plane, much less take off or fly out of the base's airspace. The fact that she escaped at all, while much appreciated, sent warning notes down her spine. You are the Americans, Brandon's contact had said. Alisha's survival suggested maybe the unknown handler was right. She knew there had been half a dozen opportunities to take her out as she fled to the plane with Rafe, opportunities she would have taken if one of her own people had been seized as a hostage and dragged unwillingly out of territory she controlled. Granted, no one who wanted Rafe to survive would have risked a head shot while she was driving on the treacherously narrow mountain road, but there had been moments of exposure while they'd gotten in the Jeep, and others while they boarded the plane.
Someone didn't want to kill her, and that brought up even more questions than she'd started with.
She sent the pilot south through Azerbaijan, landing at a private airport on the Caspian Sea to drop Rafe off without a mobile phone or money. It wouldn't take him long to get back in contact with Brandon, but every delay helped Alisha a little. She had the pilot take her farther south, into Iran, abandoned the private plane then for a commercial flight out of Tehran, and changed flights and passports twice more before reaching Istanbul a full eighteen hours after she'd been scheduled to meet Greg Parker there. Leaving the air-conditioned airport for the humid heat of a Turkish summer hadn't improved her temper any, and by the time she got to the hotel safe room, she was ready to flay herself and anyone who got in her way for her own sheer stupidity.
