by Nina D'Aleo
Rocco and I didn’t have the long stretching history or easy banter that I had with Dark. Rocco was a difficult person to understand, closed and emotionally locked up, carrying demons on his back and dangerous without a doubt, and then there was the whole thing about us being a different species of person, but there was still something strong and unshakeable about him that I couldn’t help but be drawn to—like one of the cats. I shook my head—why was I even thinking about this now? Maybe my mind was just trying to avoid facing reality, but I really couldn’t afford not to. Things had never been more real than they were now.
I looked out my window as we drove and sniffed quietly—the cool and the sudden emotion had made my nose run. I felt Rocco looking over at me. There was a loaded pause as if he was going to speak, but he didn’t. Several more minutes passed before he said, “Today has to be it.”
“Can I just ask you a question?” I burst out in anger. “How the hell is killing my partner going to help your cause?”
Rocco shook his head. “Omen is angry and he’s in pain. And his power is growing. And the more powerful he gets, the more unstable he is.”
“Is that how it works?” I asked. “The more power the less control.”
“It seems to be for some Shaman, but not all. I feel as though the more strength I’ve gained the more clarity I have.” He looked over at me and said, “I will do everything I can to keep your partner safe—from everyone—but as you saw, I can’t match Omen.”
“I think you could,” I said.
“Omen is second only to Horseman,” Rocco reminded me.
“And you’re second to him,” I argued.
“Second to second is third, Silver, and I’m a long way behind either of them—trust me,” he said.
I felt bad for pushing him, he’d already risked everything for me and I was virtually a stranger to him. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to yell at you,” I said. “I appreciate what you’ve done for me—more than I can say.”
I thought he might say something like ‘I’d do it for anyone’ or ‘It’s what I believe in’ but instead he nodded and said, “I know.”
Something about the way he said it made me think he meant—I understand.
“Your brother told me about your sister,” I said.
Rocco clenched his jaw and I thought that would be the end of that conversation, but then he spoke, or forced himself to speak. “I can’t talk about it.”
“I just wanted to say I’m sorry. I can’t imagine …” I said, then I started to imagine what if it was my brother and I felt pain—a terrible cutting pain.
“They’re safe,” Rocco said.
“That’s how selfish I am,” I said. “You’re the one suffering and I can only think of myself.” I shivered, emotionally spent.
“It’s normal,” Rocco said quietly.
“Don’t you mean it’s human?” I said, a little bitterly.
“Not just human,” he said.
After another stretch of silence, I said, “Your brother—he seems like a good guy.”
Rocco nodded. “He had a rough upbringing, but he has a good heart. And as I said to you, that’s what matters.” He leaned in and turned up the heater, even though he was obviously not feeling the cold. This man, I thought, just keeps making it more and more difficult not to like him.
We took the exit onto the freeway, which ran straight over the river into Toran-R. At this early hour, the traffic was still fairly thin, so Rocco put his foot down and we sped toward work. I wouldn’t have minded if it took longer.
“Do you have a plan for today?” he asked me.
The words triggered a memory and I said, “There’s something I forgot.” I dragged Rocco’s cell out of my pocket and opened up the gallery looking for the picture I took of the paper from Twentyman’s desk. I searched for several minutes without finding it.
“I took a photo yesterday,” I said. “In Twentyman’s office. He had a piece of paper that had I am the Blood Horseman written on it. I can’t find the picture.”
Rocco’s eyes sharpened. Driving with one hand, he took the phone and looked through it.
He shook his head. “Gone.”
“How?”
“I don’t know, but it means he must have written it.”
“The Horseman? Why would it be on Twenty’s desk then? Obviously he wasn’t the Horseman.”
“He’s taunting them,” Rocco said, his voice tight. “He’s getting sick of the game. He’s ready to strike.”
My stomach clenched uncomfortably.
“Today has to be it.” He glanced at me.
“So everyone keeps saying.”
“What’s your plan?”
“Good question,” I said. Did I have a plan for today? It would have been great if the answer had been yes, but the truth was I did not have a plan. I didn’t even have a clue. Where would be the next most logical place to search for the List? I thought maybe in the Surveillance and Technical Operations databases, but while Surveillance kept visual track of the Shaman, they didn’t necessarily decide who to track. So where did the orders of who to track come from? I thought most likely from Medical Division, where they actually re-capped the walts, where the Horseman’s people worked. It made sense that his soldiers would be in charge of knowing exactly who was a Shaman in this world.
So my current thinking was that the Medical Division computer systems might be the next place to look for the List. But really that was just a guess. I had no real intel or notion that it would actually be there, plus I didn’t have clearance for Medical level. As I’d told Omen, I hadn’t even been past the front counter before. I did still have Byter’s Shake override, though, so if I could get past the counter and into one of the laboratories, I could get into the computer system and check. I had to assume that the laboratories where they re-capped the walts weren’t monitored by surveillance, otherwise everyone would see what the Shaman were actually doing.
So the question was—how could I get into Medical Division without clearance? My mind went to the obvious. The only time Op Services agents were granted temporary passes for Medical was when we were bringing in a walt, so if I could get myself re-assigned to active duty and pick up a walt, then I’d have a legitimate reason to be there. The other option was Feng. She had told me the day before that she was going to be made Manager of Medical, but involving her would be seriously risky, especially since there was a high chance she was a Shaman soldier. I would have to make up a story about why I needed to be down there and I’d have to assume she couldn’t read my mind and see the truth—big assumption given what was at risk here …
I translated my thoughts to Rocco and at the end he said, “You’re right. It is a possibility that your friend is a Shaman or even the Horseman, but there’s also a chance that she’s not, and it’s preferable to risk using her than to go out into the field. Given Pope’s failed attempts, she’ll be getting desperate by now.”
We flew past a police car. I expected the sirens to blare with flashing blue and red—but nothing happened.
“Did you block their minds?” I asked.
“No,” he replied. “Just distracted their sight away from us.”
“Do you have to—say something—like I don’t know—a magic word …”
Rocco looked at me and raised an eyebrow. “You mean like abracadabra,” he said, a dry smile behind his voice.
“I don’t know.” I shrugged. “Do you?”
He shook his head. “It’s natural to us, like seeing, tasting, touching is for you. As with everything else, our skills can be strengthened and refined with practice, but really they’re just an extension of the normal, everyday ones. We’re just an evolution of what is already natural.”
“Supernatural,” I said. “You’re the next model up—and humans become obsolete.” I said the last bit feeling a whole lot of impending doom.
“It’s more complicated than that,” Rocco told me. “More power is not necessarily always a good thing. Privat
e thoughts provide people time to filter emotions and ideas, to inwardly contemplate. We don’t say everything we think for a reason.”
“Are all Shaman telepaths?” I asked.
“Not all,” he said.
“What are your particular skills?” I said. “Or skills you don’t have, for that matter?”
He pressed his lips together. He didn’t like the question, but he gave me an answer, or at least a partial one, “I’m not a healer … and there are other things.”
We hit the city and I looked up at the huge digital clock planted on top of a central building—4:59. The streets were still somewhat deserted, but there was a scattering of early starters, wearing suits and scarfs, clutching cups of coffee and hurrying to get out of the wind. It was blowing straight off the glacial river, where city ferries were already cruising up and down and crisscrossing to various stops. We drove over the bridge, heading along the last stretch to work, and cruised in toward a red light. Rocco turned it to green as we approached, but the car in front of us didn’t move. The couple inside were distracted, kissing and laughing. I thought if they were in such a good mood so early in the morning, the relationship had to be going well.
Rocco turned to me to say something, but his words became a sharp intake of breath. He raised his hand as though he was going to hit me, and everything seemed to slide into slow motion. I flinched and turned my face to the window, just in time to see an object pause inches away from the glass. It hovered there, stuck. I could see the air streams out behind it from where Rocco had brought its forward propulsion to a sudden halt.
He moved his hand and the object shifted, flowing sideways, striking the car in front of us. I saw the impact start to tear the vehicle apart and felt Rocco’s hand close over my arm. He ripped me out through the driver’s-side door and ran with superhuman speed away from the exploding cars. The sudden acceleration knocked the air out of my lungs and blurred our surroundings. I could hear screams echoing behind us, more and more distant, until Rocco suddenly stopped. He put me down onto the cold concrete ground of an undercover parking lot, behind a row of cars. I kept my eyes scrunched shut, trying to get my breathing under control and to stabilize my spinning head. When I’d managed it, I looked up at him. He was crouched, completely still, watching the entrance to the parking lot.
“What the hell was that?” I whispered.
“An anti-tank missile,” he replied, his voice cold, military.
“A missile,” I repeated. “For me?”
It seemed just slightly excessive. A hit like that would cause massive collateral damage. Pope could have blown away half a city block. “I thought her reputation depended on her subtlety,” I said.
“She must have got a major shove from whoever hired her. I think it must be him,” Rocco said.
“The Horseman?” I said. “Why doesn’t he just send his soldiers?”
“Same reason we can’t attack outright yet. He can’t afford to be discovered until he’s ready,” Rocco said. His eyes shifted in thought. “There is C11 surveillance everywhere along that street. I didn’t manipulate the footage. All my concentration went to the missile.”
“So the Horseman will see exactly what happened? He’ll see us …” I said.
“We may have moved too fast for the technology, but regardless, it’s now too dangerous for you to go into the office.”
“I have to go. If I don’t find the List, Omen might kill Dark.”
“You can’t save your partner if you’re dead,” he said.
“What are my choices? Will Omen listen to reason?”
Rocco looked at me—the answer was no.
“Then I have to go in, unless I try to bust Dark out and run.” I took the risk by putting the idea out there.
“With both Omen and the Horseman on your back …?” Rocco shook his head. “No chance. Suicide.”
“I’m stuck then,” I said.
Rocco thought for a second in silence, then he said, “Okay, it’s now only a matter of time before the Horseman comes after you inside Headquarters. But he still has to be subtle. If you keep to the populated areas you might be okay. I’ll work on a way to get Dark clear. It’s really the only option.”
I swallowed my fear and nodded. Rocco stood and opened the passenger door of the car closest to us. He gestured and I dragged myself up and climbed in. He got behind the wheel and started the engine, without the key, without doing anything visible. We drove out of the parking garage. Siren screams rang through the air and Rocco navigated through the back streets to avoid the roadblocks that would be starting to go up all around the explosion site. We swooped into a back alley behind Headquarters, and Rocco handed me back my gun, which I’d dropped the night before. We went on foot around to the front entrance. Rocco held me close to his side, and scanned the tops of the buildings around us.
“Is she there?” I asked.
He shook his head. “She must think she took us out.”
We entered the lobby and paused. Rocco hugged me and said into my ear, “Good luck. Keep me updated.”
I nodded. He kissed me goodbye.
His lips were as cold as mine.
25
As the elevator lowered me toward the office, I couldn’t help feeling like I was descending into hell itself, that the doors would open into the inferno and I’d see the devil waiting at front desk, curling his tail innocently around one hand. He’d say something like “Welcome home” or “I’ve been waiting for you”—or maybe even “Trying to sneak out?” He might even be eating a bowl of Fruit Loops.
The elevator doors parted and I winced, but there was no fire, no unfathomable pit, no smoothly smug devil, just the opulent entrance hall and Marissa sitting anxiously behind her computer. The look on her face as I stepped out said she’d been waiting for me. She watched me walk the distance to front desk, asking as soon as I was within range, “How is he? I keep ringing the hospital, but they wouldn’t give me any details.”
“Everyone’s been saying that,” I told her, trying to keep my voice conversational. “I haven’t been able to call this morning. I’ll let you know as soon as I find out.”
She looked a bit deflated but said, “Thanks.”
She unlocked the door into the office. As I walked through she called out, with a breathless sort of urgency, “Silver! I was thinking, when Dark has recovered—I might ask him out for a coffee or something.” Her eyes were wide and bright. “Do you think I should?”
The normalcy of the question in such an abnormal time threw me for a second. She was thinking coffee; I was thinking how the hell are we getting out of this alive.
“Why not,” I said. “You never know.” Why should I crush her hope? Life would do that well enough. She gave me a big smile and I turned and entered the office. I walked toward my desk, trying to draw as little attention as possible. Luckily, everyone seemed occupied, but being back in was a fast reminder of where I’d left things yesterday. The night before and this morning had been so intense that it hadn’t been in my mind, but the situation remained—Eric was one of the Horseman’s soldiers. He’d killed Twentyman and there was a big chance that today he’d be coming after me.
As I crossed the floor, I scanned around, checking all the places where Eric usually lurked, but he wasn’t there. Was it too much to hope that the General had dealt with him last night?
I shot a glance toward Twentyman’s office. It was still in darkness and Agent Kenealy was not at her desk. It made me think of Twentyman dying. I hadn’t even tried to step in to help him. I’d been shocked, but that wasn’t an excuse. I should have done something. I sat down at my desk. Feng and Jovic weren’t there yet, but I knew they were on morning shift as well. I needed Feng for my plan to access Medical, but I was also afraid to see her, so I was torn between relief and agitation. I leaned over and called out to an agent codenamed Yellow in the next pod, “Hey—do you know where Feng is?”
“Yeah,” he said. “She came in before and just left. They’
re working in Greenborough today.”
My hopes sunk. Greenborough was another C11 facility across town. So that was Plan A down. I’d have to go with Plan B—get back to active duty. But that would mean going out into the field, and after this morning that seemed like a very bad idea. Maybe just getting my limited duties lifted would give me a reason to go to Medical, without having to go out.
I dialed my contact in HR and was relieved when she picked up. We did the “How are you?”/ “How is Dark?” chat for a few minutes before I said, “Anyway, I was wondering if there was a way you could change my limited duties status so I can go out into the field. It’s hard to be stuck at my desk just thinking about Dark all day.”
“Sure, shouldn’t be a problem,” she said. I heard her typing and then a pause. “Actually,” she said. “It will be a problem. Your Division Manager, Agent Twentyman, is out on sick leave and I need his signature to transfer you off the assigned duties.”
“Can another Division Manager sign me out?” I asked.
“Usually, yes, but because of the Omen situation all the orders are from the top and we need Division Manager clearance. I’m really sorry, Silver.”
“Thanks anyway,” I said calmly, cursing inside.
We hung up and I massaged my aching head. So that was Plan B gone as well. On the up side I still had the Shake override.
“Silver.” A familiar voice called my name from across the office. I looked up and saw Byter heading toward my desk. He was walking faster than usual. “Hey,” he said when he was close enough. “Have you seen my override?”
