Evangelina

by MaryJanice Davidson

  Jorstad straightened and adopted an unapologetic expression. "Five, including the two fallen."

  "Five." Mercy whistled. "Five's a lot, Director. If I were one of those five, I might read that as a sign that you had no faith in any one of us. Especially since you didn't tell any of us about the others--or at least, you didn't tell me about the other four." She turned to Art and squinted. Could he be one of the four still alive? Could he be FBI? Could he be Regiment ? Did Mother send him?!? Aw, crap, that would ruin tonight . . .

  "Agent March, generally speaking, I prefer subordinates to question my direction privately. If at all. That said, I am going to cut you some slack, given your accomplishment today. I will even apologize for the appearance of it all.

  "The deceased Agents Pride and Williamson, along with Agents Oshiro and Bahar, were each sent individually, like you, with no knowledge of the others. Each of your missions was slightly different, and I saw no overlap that required coordination. In fact, I would argue that leaving you unaware of the others, allowed you the operational freedom and creativity that made capture of Evangelina Scales possible."

  "Capture." She let the word hang. "You mean the arrest for trial."

  "I use the words I mean, Agent March. You're running out of slack."

  "Very well, sir. What words would you choose to describe this?" She pointed at C-3.

  "I would use 'bull--'"

  "Detective, please." Mercy held up her hand to interrupt Lue. "Director, I believe I can be a successful asset for the Regiment, for a very long time. You've invested a great deal in me, and I'm sure you want that payoff. I need to understand your thinking, to do my best work. Please help me with that."

  Jorstad clicked his tongue, scanned the control room, and dropped his head. "My thinking, since you asked, is that we have limited time before Evangelina Scales needs to be on a C-130 headed east. We have to get all the information we need before then, because her survival is not guaranteed." He looked pointedly at each of them again. "That is classified information, ladies and gentlemen. You will treat it as such."

  "East--you mean DC has already pulled rank on you Minneapolis feds?" Lue couldn't help snickering. "Ah, irony."

  "What does DC want with her?" Mercy asked.

  Jorstad shook his head.

  "I mean, you all see it, right? Art shows up and pulls rank on my local Moorston ass, as a big-shot BCA agent. Then, as I start to get used to him, Ms. Special Agent here shows up and shows her Minneapolis, ah, credentials.

  "That was heavy stuff--you would not believe how hot my ex-wife is to work in Minneapolis, though I admit I miss the allure--and then when we finally get here, and we have Evangelina . . . BAM! There is always a bigger fish, am I right?" Lue looked at Art, who acknowledged the rant with an eye roll.

  "DC won't tell you why they want her out east?" Mercy felt a bitter taste in her mouth. "What, they don't trust us, fed to fed?"

  "I didn't say DC, Agent. I said 'east.' And I didn't say federal."

  He turned to leave. "Zarubin, you have one hour. It should take you half that long, if that equipment really works. When you're done, call in medical and have them sedate her for the trip. I've got a C-130 to wrangle from Fort Snelling . . . what now, Agent March?!"

  She had pushed him out of the room and closed the door behind her. "I'm sorry, sir, but you told me to question your direction in private, so I--"

  "It's not an obligation, Agent March, nor a dare. You could try not questioning me at all."

  "It's not DC, and it's not federal authority. Do you mean we're sending her over the Atlantic?"

  He looked up and down the empty corridor, and still spoke in a whisper. "Regiment Command wants Evangelina Scales. It's all been arranged, Agent March. Except for the C-130, which I must attend to. Right now."

  "But, sir--how can we guarantee a fair trial outside our own borders?" She swallowed, already knowing the answer, but needing to ask anyway. "How can we be sure it was Evangelina who committed these murders, and not . . . someone else? Right now, there's a viable alternative theory as to who committed many of these murders. We need clearer evidence."

  "I agree. Now." He pointed back into the room. "Go get it for me."

  As Zarubin poked around his computer, Mercy tried to forget the conversation with Jorstad. Her hand went up to the one-way glass. From this distance and angle, she could almost but not quite block out the sight beyond.

  The interrogation specialist's fingers flew over the keyboard and track pad, and internal images of Evangelina--infrared, X-ray, magnetic resonance, and several others--opened up on his screen.

  "What we hope to do here," he said in a dry educator's tone at anyone who would listen, "is arrive at a more civilized approach than Mayor Seabright's. With the inhibitor--that's that metal strip going down from the collar over the spine--we can duplicate the effect of the spine slice--prevent the change, that is--without doing any permanent damage."

  "What good does that do?" Art asked from behind Mercy. She could actually hear his teeth grinding together.

  "Nothing, without the initiator. That's the upper strip." Zarubin pointed on his screen to the normal image of the room beyond, at the shorter metal piece that pressed into the back of Evangelina's skull. "This part sends impulses to the part of the brain that clues the rest of the body in that it's time to change shape. Wires on the brain can do amazing things--zap the right part, and you can make any animal twitch a limb, or hiccup, or even smell bacon and eggs."

  "So you can get a person to morph into a dragon," Lue observed.

  "Well, you can't make a person do that," Zarubin corrected. He sharpened the contrast on one of the displays. "It wouldn't work for you or me."

  Mercy was surprised to hear no tremor in her voice. "So you get her brain to tell her body to change, and then you prevent the body from doing that."

  Zarubin nodded. "Theoretically, the resulting pain should be high enough to incent appropriate behavior, without causing the subject any actual physical damage. Such a subject should be willing to relay information on any topic we wish: the location of a nest, for example."

  "I believe most of them live in houses, like you and me," Lue said quietly. He was not looking at any of them, or even Evangelina. If Mercy had to guess, she would have figured he was thinking of someone specific.

  "We're about to find out." Zarubin flipped a switch and spoke into the microphone at his side. His voice boomed through speakers on the other side of the one-way. "We have questions for you."

  Up until this point, Evangelina had simply stared at the opposite wall. Mercy had assumed the young woman had no choice. Now, at the sound of the interrogator's voice, Evangelina moved. Her arms were still chained, but her shoulders rose, her legs straightened, and she turned to look at the one-way. Instead of sitting passively in the stool, she was now hovering over it, and inviting them with her ironic glare to come join her.

  "Have a seat, please."

  Evangelina did not move.

  Zarubin made a few keystrokes. "Have a seat."

  The device did not glow or hum or do anything at all that Mercy could tell. Still, Evangelina shrieked, pounded the table . . . and remained standing where she was.

  The keyboard taps turned into smacks. "Sit."

  She sat, wailing.

  "We have questions for you. When you hear a question, you will answer." Zarubin reached into his shirt pocket, unfolded the paper that he pulled out, and began to read.

  "First question: how many like you are left in the United States, including all fifty states and its territories?"

  Evangelina seemed to consider nonresponse, but then thought better of it. "None like me. Not anywhere."

  Zarubin went back to a gentle keyboard tap. The woman screamed and pounded the table. "None like me! Not anywhere!"

  The tapping hardened, and she was back on her feet again, slamming her fists and shaking her head. "None like me none like me not anywhere none like me . . ."

  "If I could
make an observation . . ." Lue began.

  Sighing impatiently, Zarubin flipped off the microphone. "Detective, we need answers. Lies mean punishment."

  "Evangelina is telling you the literal truth. There are none like her. Not even a dragon is like her. If you simply rephrase the question, I am certain she . . ."

  "I follow the protocol on the memorandum. It's not my job to rephrase or improvise in any way. Nor is it yours. Detective, if you cannot control yourself, I will ask you to leave. Now please . . ."

  Mercy flinched when Art suddenly stepped forward, grabbed the expensive office chair, yanked it back over its occupant's protests, flipped the switch, and barked into the microphone. "Tell them how many dragons there are!"

  The woman's reaction was stunned silence for several seconds. Something approaching a smile came to her lips. The readings on the screens showed what was obvious to their eyes: Evangelina had relaxed slightly.

  Mercy bit her lip. "You shouldn't do that, Art. Interrogation one oh one. She knows we're divided in here, now."

  "Detective McMahon! You will back away from that equipment and leave this room, or I will have you thrown out and fired!"

  Before Art could respond, Evangelina did.

  "We know of maybe a dozen more, scattered throughout the states. Most have died or escaped. Another half dozen or so in Canada, mostly Alberta. Maybe a few in Mexico and Guatemala, but none known in lower Central or South America. I know nothing about the other continents."

  "Thank you." Art flipped off the microphone, glared at Zarubin, and stepped away from the equipment with a sneer. "Continue your protocol."

  Mercy considered her options, to keep herself from vomiting. Remember, she told herself, it's like Director Jorstad said. I earned the right to be part of this.

  One option was to do nothing. Zarubin would continue the interrogation, Evangelina would experience bursts of pain, and then one of two things would happen: first, the interview would continue and conclude, and the Regiment would then dispose of Evangelina; or second, Art or Lue (probably Art) would lose patience and get them all thrown out, the interview would continue and conclude, and the Regiment would then dispose of Evangelina.

  "What is your role and position in the dragon hierarchy?"

  Another option was to take what Art had done a step further and assume control of the interview. This seemed unlikely, given Zarubin's disposition toward all of them and the low probability that Evangelina would cooperate so fully with every question on that protocol. When she refused . . . which of the three of them would zap her? If they didn't, what would happen next? Worse, what would happen if they did? And none of this solved what would happen afterward, and whether they could stop anyone from putting Evangelina on a C-130.

  "My mission is to recover as many civilians as possible, before Regiment murders them."

  "Please limit your responses to the question asked, or you will be punished again."

  The next option was to attempt to pull rank as the special agent in charge of this investigation, and demand an end to the interview until she could sort things out with Jorstad. But therein lay the question: would Jorstad even tolerate any further discussion? Was he even in charge?

  "Are there any like you--or any other dragon--working in law enforcement, for any agency in this country?"

  The last option was to do something. Probably something . . . unprofessional.

  Something my mother would hate.

  "Not anymore. It's too dangerous to apply. Too many law enforcement careers require DNA fingerprinting, and dragon genetic markers are too well-known now."

  She couldn't resort to that, could she? It would be the end of her career. Beyond that, the FBI would doubtless fire her--Regiment or no, aiding and abetting a murder suspect's escape was a felony. She would end up in criminal court, and then jail. Jorstad would not protect her. Her mother would disown her. Her father, however strong his love, would be unable to stop any of it.

  Her mother ...

  "Do you confess to the murders of Pamela Pride and Frank Williamson?"

  And it wouldn't work, would it? They'd never get out of the building. They weren't even in the same room as Evangelina to start; they'd have security on C, B, A, and ground floors; they'd lock down elevators and flood the stairwells with armed guards; it would be over before it began. Career ruination, and Evangelina would still end up dead. Maybe Art or Lue, too. Maybe even herself.

  "You have no more real questions for me. You'll kill me now, no matter how I answer."

  "Do you confess to the murder of Pamela Pride and Frank Williamson?"

  Immediately, she knew she didn't care. What was she worried about here: A bad performance review? A career languishing in the middle management of a criminal network? Her mother?

  She caught Art's eye, and in an instant she knew she had him. Having him gave her hope: he's a beaststalker, too. He can still agree, this is wrong. We can still be on the same side, he and I.

  Art turned to Lue and clapped a meaty hand on the taller man's shoulder. Lue looked at them both and nodded. He looked, Mercy thought, like she felt: pale and ready to puke, but determined as hell.

  Eyes flashed to the interrogation station. I'll take him out.

  Heads nodded to the other room. You two get her.

  "I killed Pride in self-defense! She was assassinating civilians I was trying to save! Noooooooo . . . please, please make him stop! Please! I want to talk to the other one! I want to talk to him! Please, I was wrong! You were right! I should have told you long ago! NOOOOOOOOOO!"

  Art bared his teeth at the back of Zarubin's head. Mercy got his attention back. Count to ten, she told herself, hearing her father's voice again. One, two, three, four . . .

  "One last time. Do you confess to the murder of Pamela Pride and Frank Williamson?"

  . . . five, six, seven, eight . . .

  Evangelina stood up, hooked the plastic stool with her leg, and flung it at the one-way. It bounced off harmlessly and clattered back toward her. "Fuck you and that unicornloving bitch and that fucking firebug and your entire Regiment! You're all a disgusting collection of homicidal freaks!"

  . . . nine . . . ten!

  Sirens blared. Lights dimmed. A calm woman's voice over the public address system: "Alert. Lockdown. Lockdown. All agents initiate lockdown procedures."

  Mercy, Lue, and Art all stared at each other with identical expressions. What now?

  There was no time to figure it out. Half a dozen armed guards in body armor entered the room. "We're in lockdown!" one called out.

  "Everyone stay where you are! No one in or out of this room! Sir, you need to get away from your station . . ."

  Zarubin was too fast and curious. Before the guard could pull him away, he had already called up security monitors for the complex. There, Mercy and everyone else in the room could see the reason for the lockdown.

  For the first time since she had entered this building, Mercy wanted to smile. And with one glance she could tell Art and Lue felt the same way.

  "What the hell?" Zarubin muttered. "For one woman, we're in lockdown?"

  She was in her thirties, a younger replica of the woman who had humiliated and cuffed Mercy in the park. The hair was shorter and the wrinkles fewer, but the face was unmistakable.

  Elder daughter.

  Her business suit and demeanor, along with what Mercy assumed must have been one or two cleverly falsified documents, had already gotten her past the thickest of the building's security. Whatever had tipped someone off and initiated the alarm, she was now in the soft, chewy center of the building. Her stride was confident and her movements sharp. As guards approached her, she disposed of them: a single smash across the face here, a guard's own Taser there, a roundhouse kick over there. In a suit! A suit with a skirt!

  "I must find her tailor," Mercy muttered to herself.

  "She's two floors above us," Zarubin observed. He turned to the guards in the room. "It's one woman. There's no way she makes it even
close, even if she's a trained agent. She can't get past Regiment countermeasures. I should continue the interview."

  "Sir, protocol requires a suspension of all ongoing business until we get the all clear. Please shut off those monitors."

  "I will do no such thing. And you will not touch this equipment, unless you want to lose your job."

  Mercy watched the guard consider his priorities. It appeared enough that Zarubin wasn't actively disobeying the lockdown; as long as he stayed away from the monitors, the guards would, too.

  So they kept watching Elder Daughter's progress. The second wave of guards was ready for her and had taken covered positions throughout the corridor, weapons drawn. She turned the corner . . .

  . . . and disappeared.

  It took Mercy a few moments to realize what had happened. By then, Zarubin was grappling with the guards.

  "Camouflage! Shit, she's dragon! Let me turn visual to infrared! Do your guys have infrared? Check it!"

  Convinced, they let him back at the keyboard. After a few strokes, he had the monitors showing a dark, cool background, against which stood out the bright flare of a distinctly nonhuman shape with wings.

  "You've got to warn them!"

  The guard was moving to tap his radio, when Art struck.

  The first punch went across the chins of the chief guard and the man to his left. The second punch, to the groin of the next opponent, knocked him back against the wall, where he slumped to the floor.

  Mercy admired the fighting style. Krav Maga variant. The Regiment would approve, under different circumstances.

  By the time Art would throw his third punch, the guards were ready. It made no difference. His fists treated their body armor like silk vests, plowing into solar plexuses, kidneys, and ribs alike.

  And his speed! My God!

  As the last guard went down, Zarubin grabbed his gun, raised it, and got a shot off at point-blank range, blasting a bullet straight into the BCA agent's chest.

  "Art!" Mercy caught him as he staggered back into her arms, his mouth open in a howl of pain and disbelief.

  Lue flung himself at Zarubin, pinning the weapon and the hands holding it against the far wall. Mercy thought vaguely of helping him, but she could not let go of the man in her arms.