Mercy's Chase

by Jess Lourey

  Curious. They both had work to do; they’d been clear about that when she asked them to join her at the park. She shambled toward the noise.

  Her mom’s giggle separated from the hum of conversation. That was even more odd. While Daniel made her belly laugh occasionally, Salem had only heard her mom giggle when Gracie was around. But surely Bel’s mom wasn’t in the bedroom with Vida?

  Salem’s hand was reaching toward the doorknob when her dad’s voice cut through the giggle. “Honey, Salem could be home any minute.”

  A sensation pressed against Salem’s throat.

  “Who cares?” Vida said. “We’re adults.”

  The pressure squeezed. Salem tried to swallow past it but couldn’t. She backed up from the door. She knew what they were doing, now. It was gross, but they had a right. It was her mom’s words that had struck her down.

  Who cares?

  Not Vida.

  Never Vida.

  Salem tiptoed to the bathroom, dug the dirt out of her knee with a warm washrag, and padded to her room to read. The book was Abraham Sinkov’s Elementary Cryptanalysis: A Mathematical Approach. Her father had bought it for her.

  Her mother wasn’t in London as a surprise for Salem, as Bel had said. For all her honesty and awareness, Bel wasn’t able to see Vida and Salem’s relationship as it was. Instead, she saw what she wanted to see, and what she needed more than anything was for Salem and her mom to have a connection that had been lost to Bel forever.

  Vida was in London to see the president, likely. Or for the summit. Or maybe as a tourist. But she certainly was not here for Salem. If Salem had needed any confirmation, it was written on Vida’s face when the guard led Salem and Charlie into the Robing Room, a lush, gilded cavern set aside for state occasions and for the queen to prepare in prior to the State Opening, a highly formal ceremony that marked the beginning of the annual Parliament session.

  The guard explained all of this as he led her and Charlie into the room. The queen’s ladies-in-waiting would help her to don the imperial robes and crown before beginning her ceremonial walk through Parliament. The room housed a wooden miniature of the Houses of Parliament in its center, and next to that, a temporary table had been set up. The walls featured five paintings, all painted by William Dyce. They featured images from a medieval version of the King Arthur legend to depict the chivalric virtues of generosity, religion, mercy, hospitality, and courtesy. Dyce had been commissioned to produce two more paintings for the room—fidelity and courage—but had died in 1864 before they’d been finished.

  When Salem and Charlie were ushered inside the Robing Room, Vida, Mercy, and Agent Stone were standing near the wooden miniature. While Vida’s mouth twisted like she smelled something bad as soon as she laid eyes on Salem, Mercy’s face lit up. The child’s cheeks were plump and the color of rose petals, her hair glossy, two huge buck teeth coming in where her front baby teeth had been. She’d grown at least an inch in the last month and—except for the rag doll she clutched, the one Salem had bought for her—was now unrecognizable from the greasy street urchin she’d been a year ago. The realization hurt Salem’s heart. She was missing out on Mercy’s life.

  Mercy wasted no time on reflection, instead squealing when she laid eyes on Salem. She ran to her and leaped into her arms, talking the whole time. “Auntie Sale! I got to take a plane and they brought food and I got my ears pierced and everyone talks so cool here and …”

  The child wiggled like a puppy in Salem’s embrace, chasing out all the self-doubt Vida’s appearance inspired. Tears flowed as Salem squeezed warm, perfect, loving Mercy Mayfair. She’d wasted her whole life hoping to share this unconditional love with her mother. She would instead shower it all on Mercy.

  A prickle at her hairline told her that she was being stared at. She glanced behind her, her heart ba-thumping as her eyes connected with Lucan Stone’s. He was as beautiful as she remembered and exactly as unreadable. Her glance dropped but not before she caught Charlie winking at her, almost as if he knew how uncomfortable this situation was.

  “I feel like you all know each other,” Charlie said, amiably. “Introductions all around. I’ll start with me.” He placed his hand over his heart. “Charlie Thackeray, at your service.”

  “No need for introductions,” Vida said archly, stepping forward. Charlie stepped back. Vida addressed only Salem. “Mercy wanted to see you, and the president approved. I’m here as an advisor on her team. We have a full day of activities planned.”

  Mercy dropped out of Salem’s arms, leaving a cold spot. She skipped over to Vida and took her hand. Vida smiled at the child with a warmth that she had previously reserved for Daniel and Gracie. Salem hated the way it twisted in her gut.

  “Can we have dinner tonight?” Salem asked.

  “No.” Vida’s mouth pursed. She was a handsome woman, her salt-and-pepper hair piled on her head in a neat bun, her face free of make-up except for red lipstick, her eyes bright. “We have obligations this evening as well.”

  Salem’s heart began beating in her cheeks. Charlie and Lucan were witnessing how little she mattered. It might be punishment. Her mother had been disappointed when Salem hadn’t wanted to continue as a codebreaking puppet for the Underground. Or it might simply be that Vida did not much care for Salem.

  Charlie stepped forward again, his hand out, his body language making clear he would not be dismissed this time. “Agent Thackeray. I’m your daughter’s partner. A real pleasure to meet you.”

  Vida shook the hand reluctantly, studying the man. Her eyes flicked to Lucan Stone, and something passed between them. Salem was surprised and then embarrassed by a surge of jealousy. Lucan Stone was nobody to her. It wouldn’t do her any good to act like a ten-year-old who hadn’t been invited to the party.

  “But I want to play with Salem!” Mercy dropped Vida’s hand and reached for Salem’s.

  Vida smiled, years falling off her face. “If we have time, dear. Come now. Don’t you want to see some of the most famous paintings in the world?”

  Mercy glanced from Salem to Vida. “If you promise I can play with Salem later.”

  Vida sighed. “I promise. Tomorrow, if Salem is free.”

  Salem glanced toward Charlie. He lifted one shoulder slightly. They didn’t know their schedule. It depended on what they were assigned at today’s meeting.

  Salem crouched. “We’ll make it work, Mercy. No way am I going to let you be in London and not spend time with you.”

  Mercy smiled, satisfied, and walked off with Vida.

  “It was nice to see you both,” Salem mumbled at their backs. She felt lonelier than she had since she’d arrived in London.

  “We have this room for the next hour,” Agent Stone said, his voice a deep rumble as he indicated the table in the center of the room. “I can brief you both.”

  “Not much for introducing yourself in America?” Charlie said, his smile wilting around the edges. “Name is Agent Thackeray. Agent Wiley and I are working together while you blokes are in house.”

  “Agent Stone.” His hand could have wrapped twice around Charlie’s, and Salem thought she saw Charlie wince at the grip. It was a good distraction as Salem swung from the shock of seeing her mother to the heat of last night’s clutch dream. Had it been only last night? Recalling everything Dreamland Stone had done to her, and she to him, made her feel naked in front of Real-life Stone. She needed to gain some semblance of control over the situation.

  She picked up the B&C she’d set on the ground to catch Mercy. “Are you going to need us to work here on site, Agent Stone?”

  He glanced at her, a hint of a smile in his expression. “It is up to your SAC to assign your location. My understanding is that you’ll be updating the president on Gaea and then work from wherever makes the most sense to you.”

  He walked to the table and sat down. A brusque nod at the uniformed guards
got them to step outside and close the door behind them. Salem walked toward the chair opposite Lucan—too far away, really—and took a seat. That left Charlie the option of either sitting next to Salem, next to Lucan, or halfway in between as if they were a family of three fighting at the dinner table.

  He chose a spot next to Salem.

  The move was not lost on Stone, who raised an eyebrow. “Congratulations on entering the force,” he said to Salem. “I was happy to hear of it.”

  Salem had the feeling that Stone was making fun of her but couldn’t figure out how. She didn’t understand most social interaction that couldn’t be programmed into a computer. It warmed her that Charlie had chosen to sit next to her, though. It felt like loyalty, like he’d had a choice between sides and chose hers. Such a contrast to her own mother.

  “Thank you,” she blurted, focusing on Stone. “It’s been a wild ride.”

  Stone nodded. His expression made clear that he recognized the understatement, his smile now obvious because it revealed dimples. “The president has plans for you.”

  9

  Westminster Pier, London

  Jason enjoyed London.

  First, the rich blend of sizes, skin colors, and languages made it easy to disappear into a crowd. He seldom had to completely alter his face. A pair of sunglasses plus a light tweak that created a hook in his nose was all it took, hardly any pain at all.

  Second, and more importantly, London was the home of the Mare Street Museum of Curiosities.

  He visited the Mare Street Museum whenever he was in the city, paying his six pounds for a cup of tea and access to the dusty aisles crowded with shrunken heads, pickled fetuses, and archaic books. The cacophony of oddities soothed him, somehow. It was the only place in the world he felt completely at home. He supposed it reminded him of his childhood in New Orleans. He’d lived for a time above a cluttered French Quarter store, in a home where his mother at turns tortured and ignored him.

  It was more than nostalgia that attracted him to the Mare Museum, though.

  The museum was a place where the rules were upside down. Here, the deformed and demented were brought into the light. They were celebrated.

  He liked to think of his skull ending up at the Mare once he died.

  That would be a thing.

  He’d discovered the ability to change his facial features at age six, after his mother had squeezed her hand into a fist and punched his face. He could call up the pop-squish noise of his nose exploding at will, all these years later. The blast of pain so sharp it momentarily blinded him. The satisfied expression on his mother’s face.

  He could no longer remember why she’d hit him, but he knew he’d been unable to breathe. Hot blood had gushed. His destroyed nasal passages sent the liquid the wrong way. His mother watched him struggle, sipping and sucking on the cigarette that she hadn’t even set down to punch him.

  He’d instinctively put his hand to the hamburger of his nose and pulled it away from his face. The pain was excruciating, but it meant he could breathe. He chewed air like a starving person and bolted to the bathroom, locking the door behind him.

  He stared in the mirror, his eyes already bruised from the blow.

  His nose was altered—broken, certainly, but also a whole new appendage. It amazed him how quickly a new nose changed his appearance. He stayed in the bathroom that entire day. When the bleeding stopped, he worked the cartilage like a muscle, flexing bits, suspending them in place, twitching others. It hurt a hundred times worse than any punch, the pain driving him to scream out, but it was worth it when he discovered that he could morph and hold the shape of his nose as readily as other people could raise an eyebrow or crack their knuckles.

  As time passed, with repetition and a growing tolerance to pain, he’d learned to modify the shape of the skin around his eyes and mouth and raise or lower his cheekbones as well. At the time, he figured it was some rare double-jointedness. When he was old enough, he researched it. As near as he could tell, he had sentient Sharpey’s fibers, the microscopic fingers of collagen that connected bone to muscle to skin.

  If he’d been born one hundred years earlier, he’d have been killed or put in a freakshow.

  Instead, the ability to adjust his appearance at will led him to this job. With wigs, colored contacts, a variety of clothing, and his fingerprints shaved off, he was impossible to trace.

  He carried the Mare Street Museum’s peacefulness with him as he rode the Tube toward Parliament. He had a job to do before he met with the Grimalkin.

  Reluctance tugged at his shoulders like a too-tight coat. He preferred to work alone but understood he had to reestablish himself after the Alcatraz fiasco. It had cost him his beloved mentor, Carl Barnaby, who was now in jail. After a workplace error on such a grand scale, Jason recognized he was lucky the Order had allowed him to continue living.

  He would prove himself worthy of this second chance, even if it meant working with a partner.

  Besides, the Grimalkin was mythical, a genius codebreaker and assassin equally skilled with a gun, poison, or a knife. The Grimalkin was purported to be the manager who’d fired Peruvian activist María Elena Moyano, Russian human rights activist and journalist Anna Politkovskaya, and the most famous firing, Benazir Bhutto, the first and hopefully last female prime minister of Pakistan.

  Attributing these deeds to the Grimalkin could be baseless lip-flapping meant to bolster a reputation. The world of assassins was not above that, though Jason had never resorted to telling lies about himself.

  And truly, he didn’t care which famous women the Grimalkin had let go. Jason was only interested in the famed assassin’s knife skills, which were superhuman, if true. The story went that the Grimalkin was dining with a man who was eating a steak. The Grimalkin stood, sliced the man’s throat, and sat back down so silently, so whip-quickly, that the man didn’t know his neck had been cut until he tried to swallow his meat.

  Jason knew such a thing was possible, technically. He’d slit enough throats himself. Knowing it was conceivable didn’t mean that it had happened, though. He would have to ask the Grimalkin. He might have the opportunity to improve his own knifework.

  As he detrained, Jason patted the sheathed blades inside his suitcoat pocket the way another man would check for his wallet. The Westminster stop was crowded with tourists and locals alike, green wristbands and scarves identifying those in town for the accord. He fought the urge to push back against the flow, instead melting into it, thinning his lips and extending his forehead as he strode to Westminster Pier, face down.

  He didn’t glance toward the Eye, the enormous Ferris wheel. He hugged the Thames, flicking his glance toward the benches.

  People ate popcorn. They laughed. A bearded man wearing a soaring British flag hat shoved Stonehenge tour pamphlets toward people, who shook their heads and walked on. The conversations were a loud hum of American English, British English, French, and Arabic.

  Fifteen feet ahead and to the right, a young man with Middle Eastern features studied his phone. He appeared pensive, as if he’d meant to meet someone who hadn’t shown up. He glanced to his right and to his left, massaging his neck.

  Jason neared. He smiled, brilliantly. The man, certainly no older than twenty-one or -two, couldn’t help but beam back, his eyes confused, apologetic.

  I’m sorry, I don’t remember you, they said.

  Jason nodded. He held out his hand. The man mirrored the gesture. People slid by on each side, chattering. Jason raised his other hand, the handshake morphing into an embrace. The man was too polite to correct Jason’s familiarity.

  What happened next took seven seconds.

  Jason’s right hand circled the youth’s neck, slitting his throat from behind. The young man struggled, slightly, and Jason laid him on the bench as gentle as a lover. He unclasped the bomb belt he wore under his trench coat and threaded it around
the man, his features going slack for a moment from concentration. He unfolded a newspaper and laid it across the young man’s face. If someone was walking by, they’d think Jason was checking on an itinerant who’d maybe had too much to drink, and they would avert their eyes, not wanting to get involved.

  The belt clicked and the timer set, Jason stood, smoothing his face.

  He strode toward the nearest steps, a sign telling him he could choose to walk toward Parliament or Westminster Abbey once he attained street level.

  There was not a lick of blood on him.

  He reached the street before the screaming started.

  10

  The Eye, London

  Clancy entertained no doubt that the London Eye was a fancy bit of bullshit. He’d waited in line for forty-five minutes for his chance to board the 443-foot-tall Ferris wheel. He had to admit that whoever’d invested in its creation back in 2000 had been a genius. Rolling in the money now. For about thirty-five bucks you got a molasses-slow trip around a circle. Not a treat for anybody except snipers.

  For snipers, it was ideal.

  You couldn’t shoot from up here. The pods that turtled you around were glass-enclosed. You could get the lay of the land, however, and you wouldn’t look one bit suspicious if you slapped a pair of binoculars to your face and peered first at Tower Bridge and second at Parliament, measuring the angles and sightlines, catching a glimpse of the president of the United States.

  The first time Clancy’d been tasked to kill Gina Hayes, back at Alcatraz the day before the election, he’d been the third line of defense. By all rights he never should have had to step up to the plate, but Jason had fumbled, and then Geppetto dropped the ball, and that left Clancy, who would have succeeded if not for Isabel Odegaard.

  As far as Clancy was concerned, the former Chicago cop had paid a fair price for ruining his shot. Wheelchair girl must have been an excellent police officer. You couldn’t teach courage like that. You were either born a warrior or you weren’t.