“Can’t blame a girl for trying,” she said.
Logan and Creed were twenty yards ahead when the voice came down from above.
“No,” it said. “You can’t.”
She’d leapt from a second story window, and the tiny, lithe young woman’s kick dropped Mystique to the cobblestones. Maverick knew fast. He was fast. But this newcomer … dressed in a black jumpsuit, her red hair cropped in a pageboy cut, she looked like a high-school kid, even as she blocked Silver Fox’s punch, and then took Fox down with a kick to the gut.
Somehow, the girl had the disk in her hand, and it glinted in the light from the street. Wolverine was shouting, running toward them. Any second, the East German soldiers would be coming through the hole in the wall. Sirens wailed not far off. Maverick had his H&K semiauto in his hand, aimed at the girl’s heart.
There wasn’t anything she could do to him. She hit him, it would just give him more energy, power up his mutant battery. He hesitated.
Electricity arced from her wrist, and David North screamed as thirty thousand volts surged through his body. It only lasted a second, but that was enough to drop him where he stood. Electricity wasn’t kinetic energy. At least he was still conscious. Any normal man would have been out cold.
When he managed to look up, Mystique and Fox were already on their feet, drawing an aim at something moving high up on the wall to the left. It was the girl, of course. But how?
Of course, how didn’t matter. They had the girl in their sights.
“Move it!” Wolverine shouted behind them.
Gunfire erupted from the shattered fence they’d left behind, and Creed and Logan returned fire, trying to keep the Volksarmee from coming through the fence. But the distraction had been enough. Both Mystique and Fox had been thrown off. The girl was gone.
So was the disk.
Team X was up and moving.
“Meet back at the pickup,” Wolverine snarled. “I don’t care how you get there, just get there!”
“What about me?” Mystique asked.
Wolverine glared at her. “What about you? Go!” he shouted.
All hell broke loose, but they didn’t need to fight anymore. Running was easy. Fox would have it the hardest, Maverick knew. But she’d find a way. She always did.
As she fled across the rooftops, the Black Widow slowed for only a moment: just long enough to grab her long coat and the peasant scarf she used to cover her hair. Only half a block from where soldiers were still trying to make sense of what had happened—not to mention trying desperately to find any of the spies they thought for certain they had cornered—Natasha Romanova crawled carefully down the side of a building to the street.
She hadn’t believed her KGB controller when he’d first explained how the gloves and boots would work. That the synthetic stretch-fabric could possibly stick to anything—especially since the science used to create the microsuction technology was top secret—seemed too much like science fiction for Natasha.
But it worked after all. It had saved her life, in fact.
The Widow moved along the fronts of buildings, trying to keep out of sight as much as possible. Dawn was only a few hours away, and any lone woman walking the streets at this time of night was likely to be stopped and questioned—particularly if she didn’t look like a prostitute.
Soon enough, however, she was moving into the newer section of East Berlin, where shining metal and concrete towers had sprung up in what was once the center of Berlin. Natasha considered the newer architecture, side by side with venerable old structures, a scar on the city’s face. But that was one of the many costs of progress. It disturbed her deeply.
She glanced up at the TV tower, nearly twelve hundred feel high, and saw that even with the moon only a sliver, the tower’s stainless steel sphere reflected its light. There was something about it that gave her hope, like a beacon, of sorts. Natasha turned left and was comforted to know that her warm bed in the Berolina Hotel was only a few blocks away.
In the distance, sirens still wailed. But as she walked, one siren singled itself out. It grew louder, as if it were heading this way. She thought to hide out in a recessed doorway, try to get off the street.
Then she realized it was not a siren at all. It was a voice. Screaming. Wailing.
Not him, she thought. Not now!
The Black Widow ran. Not because she feared her pursuer, but because she was angry. She’d been so close. But then, she realized, Cassidy could not have found her by chance. He had to have been following her.
She tapped unconsciously at the belt pocket on her jumpsuit, inside which she had hidden the disk. He would not have it. The last time they had met, he had forced her hand. The Widow was a spy, not an assassin. She would not kill unless she were endangered, or specifically ordered to do so. But Cassidy had forced her to hurt him.
She’d do it again if she must. Kill him, if it came to that. But she wouldn’t let him have the disk.
Plate-glass shop windows reflected only the night off to her left. The wailing grew louder and lower. He was almost upon her. The Widow ran to the shop’s door, used all her strength to kick at the wood next to the lock. The frame shattered, and then she was inside.
Even as she ducked her head into the shop, the plate glass shattered from the power of Cassidy’s voice. Natasha shielded her face from the glass. She crouched in the dark and listened. If she could get the jump on Cassidy, get him with her “widow’s bite,” the electrical charge she could fire from her gloves, she would get away clean.
But if he saw her first, that sonic scream of his would take her down instantly. Then all would be lost.
Footsteps crunched in glass. In the distance, there was shouting and the sound of approaching vehicles. Polizei, or Volksarmee. Either way, Cassidy wouldn’t want them finding him. Whereas if they found Natasha, it might be uncomfortable at first, but she would get to go home alive. If she had some way to signal them … if she was conscious long enough to signal them.
One grating foostep. Then another. Then … nothing.
“Well, well,” a gravelly voice said from outside the shop. “If it ain’t Sean Cassidy. Fancy meetin’ you here, Inspector.”
The Widow recognized that voice. It belonged to the agent named Wolverine. But how?
“Aye,” Cassidy agreed. “An’ I’d say the same to you, Logan, if I didn’t have a little rabbit down a hole, and not a great deal of time to complete the hunt.”
Shouting, even closer now. A gunshot or two.
“Yeah, the Widow,” Wolverine agreed. “I got her scent.”
Scent! Natasha’s mind reeled. Had he actually somehow followed her trail based upon her scent? What kind of man could do such a thing?
“Ye’re after her too, then?” Cassidy asked, his voice tightening.
“She’s got somethin’ I want,” Wolverine explained. “What happens to her after that, I don’t much care.”
“Good,” Cassidy said. ” ‘Cause I mean to kill her.”
In the darkness, the Black Widow’s eyes grew wide. For the first time in a very long time, she felt like the teenager she was. Espionage was a dangerous game, but it was a cold, unfeeling one as well. Yet there was something in Agent Cassidy’s voice that told her this was very, very personal.
And that he meant what he said.
* * *
Washington, D.C., was a contradiction unto itself: a glorious testament to the history of the United States to some, a hellhole to others.
Not every neighborhood was home to congresspeople and corporate lobbyists. The real people, the working people, of Washington did not live next to centuries-old, gleaming marble-and-granite monuments to an era of righteousness long since passed. Not even close. Instead, they lived in an intensely paced metropolitan environment in which they were trapped between wealthy suburbanites and a massive population of the working poor and the unemployed.
There were some very nasty areas of D.C., areas the average citizen knew enough to avoid. M
ystique and Wolverine had found their way into one of them.
“You sure this is the address?” Logan asked.
“This is it,” Mystique replied. “Why, it’s not up to your old friend Wraith’s usual standards?”
Wolverine didn’t respond to that. Instead, he stared at the building in front of them. It was old and without character, unless you considered decay to have a personality. Half a dozen air conditioners jutted from random windows on the three upper floors. Some of the windows were boarded up, others just broken and left unattended. Yet a peek at the many personal items left on the fire escape—children’s toys, hanging clothes, plants and bicycles—made it clear that the building was occupied.
The second through fourth floors, then, were made up of apartments. The first floor, however, was given over to an establishment called Danny’s Dojo, according to the homemade sign in the window. Another sign, inside the glass door, announced that Danny’s Dojo was open.
Logan studied the building for several seconds longer, then turned full circle, scanning the neighborhood. The next building to the left had a deli on the bottom and some kind of church group’s offices on its second floor. A ways down from that was a storefront police station or, at least, some kind of annex to the local precinct house, which they’d passed on their way over.
Some empty storefronts, a couple of really ragged-looking older homes converted into apartments, and a pizza joint that apparently had no name at all filled out the block behind them, across from Wraith’s building.
“Apartment number?” Wolverine asked.
“Two-C,” Mystique told him.
“Hang on.” Logan stepped away from her, up on to the curb and to the door of Danny’s Dojo. He opened the door—which set a bell ringing—and stepped inside. The place was warm and bright but empty, for the moment. No classes this morning, apparently.
The man who responded to the bell was white, probably in his early forties, and balding on top. He didn’t look like much—until you got to his eyes. His eyes told the whole story.
Danny was a warrior. Logan liked him right off.
“You Danny?” he asked.
“I am,” the man replied, sizing Logan up with a look. “But I’d guess you’re not looking for a teacher.”
“No,” Wolverine agreed. “No, I’m not. I’m looking for a neighbor o’ yours. Up in 2C. Name’a John Wraith.”
Danny didn’t blink. Just stared at Logan again, more intently this time.
“He’s a little taller than me. Skinny guy. Black. Got a few years on you, I guess, but not too many,” Wolverine continued.
“Ray Johnson,” Danny said.
“Huh?”
“That’s the name I know,” Danny explained. “Ray Johnson. From the sound of it, that’s the guy you’re looking for. He shows up every few weeks, stays a few days, then he’s gone again. Says he’s got a lady friend on the other side of town.”
“He around now?” Logan asked.
“Haven’t seen him in weeks.”
“He friendly with any of the neighbors, anybody else around here?”
“He’s not friendly,” Danny answered. “But if you’re asking me does anyone else know where to find him, I can’t answer that.”
Wolverine’s eyes narrowed at the phrasing.
“Can’t?”
“I mean I don’t know,” Danny corrected.
“I hope that’s what you mean,” Logan said, glaring at the man.
“Look, I don’t want any trouble, buddy. This is my business, y’know? You have a beef with Ray, you take it up with him. I barely even know the man,” Danny said.
Logan considered, then nodded. “All right. Thanks for your help. Now I’d like to ask a favor.”
Danny’s face responded, lips twisting up, perhaps preparing a sarcastic comment, or just to tell Logan that he had a lot of nerve. He took another look at Wolverine, and obviously thought better of it.
“Let me guess,” Danny replied. “You want me to keep quiet about you looking for Ray?”
“That ain’t it at all. If he’s not up there, I want you to spread the word. Make some noise. Tell anyone you like that someone’s lookin’ for Ray Johnson, claims his name is John Wraith, and he’s got a lot of skeletons in the closet he might not want his neighbors knowin’ about.”
Danny smiled, amused by it all.
“Sure,” he said. “I can do that.”
Wolverine nodded his thanks, turned, and went back to the door. When he opened it, bells chimed again. Before he stepped out, he glanced back at Danny.
“One more thing, bub. I’d take it real personal if anything happened to my motor while I’m looking around upstairs,” Logan said.
For a moment, Danny said nothing.
“This is a good neighborhood, man,” Danny replied. “Nothing’s gonna happen to your bike.”
Logan let the door shut behind him, glad to be rid of the ringing bells. Mystique stood half-leaning on his antique, rebuilt Norton motorcycle. Beautiful as always, she had morphed into a Latina again. This time, she looked a lot like Selena, the dead singer. She wore jeans and sneakers and a green cotton blouse that looked especially good on her.
Wolverine had changed as well. His back had nearly healed, but he wanted something soft on the raw skin, so he had donned a worn flannel shirt to go with his jeans, and changed into hiking boots. It wasn’t that he never wore sneakers. They just weren’t his style. Besides, cowboy boots or big steel-toed workboots were more durable.
They went up the stairs together. The walls had water stains here and there, and the plaster was cracked in several places. All in all, though, it wasn’t as bad as the outside had led thern to believe.
Outside the door to 2C, they paused.
Logan knocked, waited half a minute, then knocked again. After the second knock, the door to 2B opened, and a shrill, nervous old woman stuck as much of her face into the door as she could fit in the gap allowed by her security chain.
“He ain’t home,” she said. “Ain’t never home, that man.”
“You know Ray Johnson, ma’am?” Wolverine asked, his gravelly voice pitched as reasonably as he could make it.
The door slammed. The old woman was silent.
Mystique had a grin on her face when she looked back at Wolverine. Logan chuckled as well. He drew back his leg, prepared to kick the door open.
“What if it’s rigged?” Mystique asked.
But Wolverine had considered that already. If Wraith used this place as a flop, maybe a safehouse, it was possible he’d have a security system installed, black-ops style. Meaning, the whole place could blow up if somebody tried to break in. On the other hand, in a not-so-nice neighborhood like this, a man gets a rep for not being at home is more than likely to be subject to burglary eventually. So if a few kicks would be enough to open the door, then the building probably wasn’t going to go up in a thunderous C4 explosion.
However, if he couldn’t kick it open, if the place was significantly reinforced like Maverick’s had been … that might be another story.
The third kick shattered the frame and the door swung in. Inside the room, directly across from the door, a red light was blinking.
“Trap?” Mystique asked.
“Naw,” Logan replied. “But I’ll bet wherever he is, Wraith knows he’s got company.”
“So we just sit and wait?”
“I didn’t say he’d care,” Wolverine explained. “If there isn’t much in this place he cares about, he might not come back at all now that he knows the place has been compromised.”
They searched the apartment and came up dry. A mattress and blankets lay on the floor of the one, large room. The tiny pantry kitchen had a half-size refrigerator that was empty but for a jar of mayonnaise. They began checking the walls and floorboards, searching for a secret cache where Wraith could hide weapons or documents.
Nothing.
Nothing under the mattress. Nothing in the empty closets. Nothing floating in the t
oilet tank. Nothing in the medicine cabinet but a half a package of antihistamines.
Wolverine closed the medicine cabinet door, stared for a moment at its mirrored front. He was a bit surprised that they’d come up empty, that Wraith wouldn’t, at the very least, have some weapons hidden somewhere in a place like this. Otherwise, why bother to keep it up at all? Frustrated, he ran water from the sink and splashed some on his face. When he opened his eyes, Wolverine noticed a fine white dust on the porcelain top of the sink, behind the faucets.
A tiny detail, but one he wouldn’t have missed. It hadn’t been there a moment ago. What had he … ah, the medicine cabinet. He bent over and looked at the bottom of the cabinet, saw that the entire thing was not actually hung against the wall so much as resting inside it. The white dust was plaster.
“Mystique, in here,” he said in a low voice.
She popped her head in as he was pulling the medicine cabinet out of the wall. The cabinet itself was a false front to a large metal case. It had three separate keyholes. It would have required an extraordinary lockpick, or a locksmith. Either one would be a waste of time. More than likely, the police would arrive eventually, if Wraith’s neighbors even cared that the man’s apartment had been broken into.
Snikt. Wolverine popped a single claw and carved the metal box like a can opener.
“What have we here?” Mystique muttered as she reached into the box.
Inside, there was an old Walther pistol and two yellowed journals, the kind schoolchildren might keep for notebooks, Wolverine thought. He flipped them open, glanced at the gibberish inside.
“Code,” he grumbled.
“Anything you recognize?” Mystique asked.
He shook his head. “But they could be something Wraith values, so we’ll just hang on to them for a bit.”
“You don’t trust him at all, do you?” Mystique asked suddenly.
“That ain’t it,” Logan answered. “I trust Wraith to be completely loyal. Just not to me.”
Christopher Golden Page 13
