When I declared Genie a threat, the level of nanomite activity accelerated. The mites flung data in front of me, and I began sifting through it—everything about Genie the mites had found online and were still finding.
It was a lot, and—whoa!
It was one thing to “know” someone; it was another to be privy to their personal life. I saw things I’d never realized about Genie—such as her penchant for designer footwear. Oh, she’d always been a clothes horse, but the price of her online orders of Sergio Rossi, Christian Louboutin, Jimmy Choo, and Manolo Blahnik shoes could have fed a third-world country.
I can’t even mouth what she paid for a pair of Valentino Garavani studded ankle-strap heels!
As I paged through records and images, my anxiety calmed: Genie was home. Her billable hours were intact, and she was on her merry way to a junior partnership in her firm.
No worries.
I skimmed over an airline reservation—and jumped back to it. Delta flight 1907 from DCA to ATL. Reagan National in D.C. to Atlanta.
ATL to ABQ.
ABQ. Albuquerque.
First class. Return, open-ended.
Yesterday!
I stared down the long corridors of the warehouse.
Genie had arrived in Albuquerque yesterday? But Genie despised the Southwest. Hated New Mexican culture. Nothing could have compelled her to return to Albuquerque so soon after her last visit except—
Cushing. It had to be Cushing, Cushing pulling Genie to her side and into her schemes. Genie had disliked Cushing on sight, but Cushing possessed the means to compel Genie to help her, to use her to get to me.
But how? It made no sense. How could Cushing use Genie? In what circumstance could Cushing employ Genie against me? My sister and I shared no bonds of affection, so that avenue would not work. Would Genie try to impersonate me as she had with Zander? Yes, we looked alike, but we were opposites—polar extremes—in personality. Besides, I was invisible; how would it benefit Cushing for Genie to impersonate me? And who would Cushing target with such an impersonation?
Not Abe. Abe had watched us grow up. He always could tell us apart.
Not Zander. He had met Genie once, but he had known she wasn’t me. “Discernment,” he’d called it. “She might look like you on the outside, but she isn’t you on the inside. At all. I could feel that,” he’d said.
And both Abe and Zander knew I was “stuck” in my invisibility because Dr. Bickel had told the nanomites not to leave me. If “I” just happened to show up without the mites? Well, neither Abe nor Zander would be fooled.
Then who? Who was Cushing’s intended target?
For that matter, had I met anyone else since that fateful day in September when Cushing’s soldiers had stormed Dr. Bickel’s lab under the mountain? Since the nanomites had made a home in me? Since I’d been rendered invisible? Since I’d been on the run?
I stared straight ahead. Agent Gamble.
He wouldn’t recognize Genie as me, of course—since he’d never actually seen me—but if Genie introduced herself as me, would her voice sound enough like mine to trick Gamble? Was that Cushing’s ploy? Trick Gamble into admitting that he knew me? Trap him in his lies? Then take him into custody and use him against me?
I’d told Gamble to beware of Cushing, but he wouldn’t see this coming.
I hadn’t seen it coming!
And why had Genie infiltrated my dreams the very night after she’d arrived in Albuquerque? Another coincidence?
Think about that later, Gemma.
I needed to warn Gamble.
I couldn’t risk calling him, either. Despite his friend’s “gizmo” to sweep his phone, Cushing might still have his line tapped.
It had to be face to face. ASAP.
“Nano. I need to speak to Agent Ross Gamble in person. It’s urgent. Find his home address.”
***
I parked two blocks from Agent Gamble’s apartment complex just past 5:30 a.m. and walked up to the security gate, my head swiveling this way and that, scanning for any sign that Cushing’s people were nearby. The November sun wouldn’t rise until almost 7 a.m. so it was too dark to see into the shadows where her people could be hiding.
Invisibility was my first and best defense, but technology worked on Cushing’s behalf. For all I knew, her goons had thermal imaging goggles trained on me at this very moment, and I was waltzing into a trap. If Cushing’s people were using thermal imaging?
Then I was in big trouble.
I gestured toward the access keypad and the gate swung open. Jogged toward the back of the complex, toward the unit housing Agent Gamble’s apartment.
The mites chittered. They knew I was nervous. Maybe they had their own case of the willies.
A stream of nanomites flew out in front of me. My forward reconnaissance.
I was approaching the stairs leading up to Gamble’s apartment when the mites whispered a warning.
Gemma Keyes.
“Yes?”
To your right and to your left.
I slowed. Studied the cars parked nearby. Crud! Two vehicles. At least eight of Cushing’s agents. Genie had to be with them. I had to reach Gamble before she did!
Gemma Keyes. At the base of the stairs.
I spied the silhouette of a man in street clothes, smoking a cigarette under the flight of stairs. Interesting. Posted signs papered the complex: No smoking allowed on the premises.
Had to be Cushing’s man.
“Nano. Is there another way up to the second floor?
At the other end of the building.
I tiptoed past the smoking agent. Halfway down the length of the building, I sprinted. Found the other staircase and crept up it.
I was looking for apartment 12C. It should have been—I stopped, didn’t need to look any farther. Gamble, a travel mug in one hand, was locking his front door.
I scooted up next to him and placed my hand on his arm—to prevent him from throwing his coffee into the air.
“Don’t move,” I whispered. “Don’t say a word.”
Gamble took me seriously. He stood as still as a rock.
“Cushing has agents waiting for you downstairs. One under the stairs behind you, two cars in the parking lot.”
“Um, yeah, so what does that mean? She intends to abduct me? An agent of the FBI?” Gamble kept his voice low, but I could tell he doubted me.
“Only if you give yourself away. Listen to me—this is important: I have a twin sister, Agent Gamble. An identical twin sister. She and I look and sound the same. I believe Cushing’s plan is for Genie to approach you as you leave for work.”
Gamble shook his head. “I’ve never seen you. How could I mistake her for you? What is the point?”
I took a deep breath. “I think Cushing has two points. First, if Genie says she is me and you acknowledge her, you will have let on that we’ve spoken before, and Cushing will know you lied to her. Her agents will disappear you so fast you won’t know what happened until you wake up—location unknown.”
Gamble was no fool, and he was a quick study. “Huh. Okay, so if a woman approaches me claiming to be you, I should act like I don’t know what she’s talking about. And the second point?”
“I think Cushing is starting to figure out that I have the missing nanomites and that they have rendered me invisible. However, the idea is so improbable, that she won’t risk being labeled a nut job. She needs someone else to validate her suspicions. You.”
“You mean, if I were to let on to your sister—pretending to be you—that we’ve met before and ask her how I could, this time around, see you?”
“That’s it.”
Gamble swore under his breath. “It would have worked. If you hadn’t warned me . . .”
“Don’t think about that. Just be prepared. I’ll be standing by. Just in case.”
“Just in case?”
“I’m not altogether powerless, Agent Gamble—remember what the nanomites did to your hand? If need be, I can
fight for you.”
He stared toward my mouth, toward the spot where he heard my whispered words emerge.
“No, Gemma. If they take me, it is vital that they have no evidence, no real proof that you are, you know . . .”
“Invisible?”
“Yeah. That. Don’t put yourself in harm’s way, Gemma. Your capture is Cushing’s endgame, isn’t it? If she catches you, she’s achieved her objective. And if she gets you, I can kiss my, uh, backside goodbye. Right?”
He was right.
I’d almost made a stupid, stupid mistake. A tactical error of momentous proportion.
“Thank you, Agent Gamble. You . . . you’re a good man.”
One side of his mouth quirked upward in the dim light of morning. “I don’t know about that, but I’d better be a good actor. Don’t hang around to watch my performance, Gemma.”
I released my hold on Gamble’s arm. “I wish you well.”
Gamble, whistling a soft tune—no doubt a ploy to keep his nerves in check—headed for the stairs. I tiptoed right behind him. No, I wasn’t going to let Cushing know I was there, but I wasn’t going to leave without seeing what happened, either.
Um, God? Agent Gamble is one of the good guys. Please help him be a rock star of an actor today!
As I followed Gamble down the stairs, I shook my head back and forth. What was with all these come-lately petitions? I didn’t believe God would answer.
Did I?
I stopped halfway down the flight; I didn’t want to chance Smoker-in-the-Shadows hearing my footsteps. Gamble reached the bottom and kept walking, that same tune whistling between his clenched teeth. He crossed the grass between two buildings, hit the asphalt parking lot, and headed toward the line of cars under a long carport.
Smoker guy followed at a discreet distance. Day was breaking, and he had no more shadows to hide him, so he slipped behind the next building’s corner.
I descended the stairs and followed Gamble out to the parking lot. When I reached the asphalt, I sprinted and ended up on the passenger side of his car just as he hit the key fob to unlock his door.
With the click of the locks, I heard her.
“Agent Gamble! Oh, Agent Gamble! I’m so glad I caught you.” She was more casually dressed than her norm, wearing something I might have worn. And her face bore an open, innocent expression.
Ohhhh, Genie, my evil sister. You are so good at being bad.
I scooted around the hood of Gamble’s car and positioned myself to see and hear their exchange—and to keep one eye on Cushing’s thugs.
Gamble jerked at Genie’s greeting and turned, coffee still in hand. “I beg your pardon?”
“Agent Gamble, I’m glad I caught you before you left. It’s Gemma Keyes. You remember me, don’t you?”
Gamble cocked his head. “Gemma Keyes. The Gemma Keyes? The Gemma Keyes General Cushing is searching for?”
“I, well, um . . .”
Gamble set his travel mug on the roof of his car and—once again, so stinking fast!—grabbed Genie by her wrist, twisted her arm behind her, threw her against his car, and whipped out his cuffs.
Genie shrieked. “Stop! W-what are you doing?”
Gamble never answered. He had Genie pinned against the back door of his vehicle. He finished cuffing her and then patted her down—neck, back, arms, sides, waist, legs.
“Stop it, you idiot!” Genie screamed. “I’m Gemma! You know me!”
“Lady, I’ve never seen you in my life,” Gamble replied, “but I know Homeland has labeled you a domestic terrorist.”
Gotta say, I hadn’t seen that coming. It was everything I could do not to break into enthusiastic applause. Whatever acting abilities Genie had? Gamble was better. I was practically jumping up and down.
And the Oscar goes to—
“Agent Gamble.”
Cushing’s voice tore away my enthusiasm like a hull breach sucks air from a star ship.
Whoosh.
Goodbye.
Gone.
Gamble held a hand between him and Cushing. “Whoever you are, step back.”
“Agent Gamble, please release this woman.”
“And you are?”
“General Imogene Cushing. We’ve spoken, remember? You called me.”
Gamble had the mix of confusion and serious professional down cold. “General Cushing? What is this about? Why are you here?”
“I must apologize, Agent Gamble, but this woman is not Gemma Keyes. Again, you may release her.”
Genie’s curses were turning the air every color of the rainbow. She cursed Gamble; she cursed Cushing; she cursed me. I heard phraseology I think a steelworker would be proud to adopt.
Gamble’s chin jutted forward. “She claimed to be Gemma Keyes.”
“Ah, yes, but I assure you, she is not. Please remove your handcuffs, Agent Gamble.”
“Take them off me, you *bleep bleeping bleep*!” Genie screamed. She twisted and tried to wrench herself free of Gamble’s hold.
Gamble pushed Genie’s head onto the roof of his car where it landed with a satisfactory “thunk.” Genie’s shrieks, muffled against the roof, ended in a moan. I put both hands over my mouth to stifle an all-out guffaw.
At the same time, Cushing’s agents, most in black tactical gear, exited the two vehicles and lined up not far away, awaiting Cushing’s signal, should she call for them.
Gamble saw the men, pulled his credentials from his breast pocket, flipped them open, and held them high for them to see. “FBI! Keep your distance.” He folded his creds but kept a finger pointed at the men. “You are out of your jurisdiction. Stand down. You’ve been warned.”
He rounded on Cushing. “General Cushing, I don’t know what your game is, but this woman introduced herself to me as Gemma Keyes. You told me Keyes was wanted by Homeland. I will, at the very least, check her ID before I release her.”
Cushing, who had begun in a reasonable tone, was now impatient. “Let me save you the trouble, Agent Gamble. This is Genie Keyes, Gemma Keyes’ sister. Her twin, actually.” Cushing squared her shoulders, glowered, and moved a step toward Gamble, trying to intimidate him—which was about as effective as spitting into a brush fire.
Gamble eyed Cushing and stood taller; he towered over her and closed the gap between them. “Is this your idea of a joke, General? Because I’m not finding any of this humorous. What’s your objective here?”
Okay, I will admit it. This was the best show ever! I was ready to grab a bowl of popcorn and settle down on the grass. I hadn’t enjoyed myself so much, well, in months.
Gamble leaned into Cushing’s face, forcing her to back up. “Furthermore, General, this has all the appearance of an unsanctioned military operation on American soil—strictly prohibited by the Constitution. And to what end would Gemma Keyes’ sister impersonate Miss Keyes to me?”
Gamble’s timing was incredible. He paused a tick, as though a thought had hit him. “Wait. Were you attempting to entrap me, General Cushing? I told you already: I’ve never met Gemma Keyes—I’ve never seen her, never spoken to her, and would not know her if she introduced herself to me.”
He thrust his credentials into his pocket, shoved my moaning sister against the car, and undid the cuffs. He took her by the arm and pushed her into Cushing’s arms. Then he removed his phone from his pocket and began snapping photos.
No, he was shooting video.
“What are you doing? Stop that, Agent Gamble,” Cushing demanded.
“No, General Cushing, I will not. I will be making a full report when I arrive at my office this morning. Whatever you are doing, it needs to be reported to the proper authorities.”
Two of Cushing’s jackboots started across the asphalt. Gamble recorded their approach before he climbed into his vehicle. I heard the doors lock as the two men reached for the handle.
Gamble cracked his window. He was still filming.
“This is Special Agent Ross Gamble, FBI, recording an unauthorized military operation
conducted at 1700 Alameda, Albuquerque, New Mexico—
One of Cushing’s men raised the butt of his rifle to smash the window. Gamble hit the gas, and his car shot backward, clipping the soldier. Gamble didn’t stop. He threw the car into drive and sped toward the gate.
Cushing put her hand on the man closest to him. “Let him go. Return to base. I have urgent phone calls to make.”
I’ll bet you do, Sharky Face. Up for a little damage control?
“What about me?” Genie screeched.
“You? You may shut up, Miss Keyes. And you may return home. I have no further need for you.”
The two women glared at each other, their mutual dislike open and apparent.
Then Genie smoothed her face, but I could read her like a book: You may have no further need for me, General, but I am not finished with you.
I would not relish being on the receiving end of her fury.
“Fine, but how do I get back to my hotel? My rental car is still on the base.”
Cushing nodded to the soldier near her. He grabbed Genie by the arm and dragged her toward one of the two waiting vehicles.
A minute later, no one remained in the parking lot except me and two apartment dwellers who gaped at each other.
“What in the world was that?” one asked.
“I have no idea,” the other replied.
I laughed aloud. All the way to my car, I laughed. I chuckled, sniggered, and snarked as I drove to the parking garage, as I reran the highlights of Gamble’s performance. He had been masterful—far better than I could have hoped for.
I visualized Gamble debriefing his boss and writing up the report of Cushing’s ambush (complete with video).
I smiled. My heart was still pounding, but I smiled.
Cushing would be busy putting out fires for the rest of the day.
Genie would waste no time getting out of New Mexico.
What a great morning.
~~**~~
Chapter 20
That night, Gus-Gus and I worked off my nano-charged energy. Fact is, the AI was one strange dude: He never got mad or showed emotion, yet he managed to stir up plenty of both in me. My feet had grown calluses, my hands moved in my sleep (what little sleep the nanomites allowed me), and Gus-Gus’ voice echoed in my head every waking moment: counting, counting, counting, calling direction, shouting corrections. Counting, counting, counting.
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