by Karen Hayes
The security staff outside don't seem to be paying any attention to me. They don't even look my way. I heave a deep breath and try to come up with a solution.
He's planted this order in my mind. Which means... which means I need to concentrate on something else.
What should I think of? Anything, as long as it's not what I'm about to do. How about the car's make or the color of its upholstery?
Indeed, as long as I concentrate on something else, my movements become easy and fluid. But the moment I think of fleeing this place, imagining myself running away and asking for help, I immediately feel apathetic. My body becomes so heavy I can't move at all.
Focusing on the disheveled state of my hair, I reach for the door handle. Doesn’t work. I try again. And again.
Finally, I can feel the cold metal under my fingers. One last attempt...
The door swings open. Trace is standing outside, looking first at me, then at my hand. His face is impassive.
Has he been watching me? Is he going to tell Adam about it?
"Get out," he says.
Among other things, Adam told me to obey Trace's orders. Now this command clashes with his order not to leave the car, causing a bout of agonizing pain in my brain. It feels like two cogs of a mechanism jamming each other, unable to go their respective ways.
The bout soon passes, though. I leave the car. Trace hangs an ID card around my neck. He gives me a critical once-over, then nods to me to follow him.
We leave the parking and join the expensive-looking crowd trekking up the stairs: men in ties and business suits, women in sheath skirts and elaborate hair styles. I feel so out of place among them, like a little girl who's sneaked into a grownups' party. Having said that, I look perfectly in keeping with the occasion in a dark pant suit and a pair of heels.
Talking about which, the heels aren't that high. The shoes are actually comfortable enough in case I have some running to do. The problem is, I can't force myself to do it.
The stairwell echoes with voices. Some middle-aged politician types behind me are busy discussing McAllister's credibility with the voters.
I wish I could turn around and tell them who their precious candidate really is. I'd love to open their eyes to McAllister's true nature: a puppet controlled by the most dangerous psychopath that has ever trodden planet Earth.
Unfortunately, I can't do that. I follow Trace like a lapdog on a leash.
We walk past the sign, Auditorium. Most of the crowd follow it; we're among the few who ascend another couple of flights until we enter a narrow corridor lined with dressing rooms.
The corridor is crowded with TV staff, security and some of the guests. Everyone seems to be busy and in a hurry.
We thread our way past them until we arrive at the door bearing McAllister's name. Trace knocks three times.
Coleman - McAllister's security chief - opens the door to us, then promptly leaves the room with one of his men in tow. He's dark as a thundercloud. I catch a glimpse of the gun he's sliding into his jacket.
Trace exchanges a dry greeting with him, then shoves me inside.
The mirrored dressing room is tiny. It's also packed with duals.
I notice a tall man, his hair as white as snow. He looks very similar to the albino I saw in the lab. Same height, same chiseled Nordic features. The only difference is, this time he's fully dressed and conscious.
Adam is standing in front of a mirror, slicking his hair down. He motions me to approach and points at a stool next to him. I sit down, clasping my freezing hands.
Several speakers under the ceiling allow us to hear what's happening on stage. The presenter speaks about the nature of Presidential debates and their positive contribution to democracy, offering examples from previous years and other countries, and so on and so forth, generously peppering his spiel with words of gratitude to various donors and associations.
That's not what worries me.
What does worry me is that Ben McAllister is staring directly at me.
He's leaning back on a small couch with his arms draped over its soft plush back. His head is leaning to one side. His eyes resemble the glass buttons of cuddly toys.
A neat small dark hole gapes at the center of his forehead, with a tiny drop of caked blood below.
He's dead as a doornail. If I stretch my legs, my toes will touch his shoes.
"You see what happens when one asks too many questions?" Adam says impassively, studying his white shirt collar in the mirror.
I don't reply. I just keep looking at the dead body.
Why did they have to get rid of him? Had he found out something he wasn't supposed to know? Oh did he want to quit Adam's game?
In any case, isn't he supposed to go on stage now? How is he going to deliver his speech or, you know, debate with his opponent?
"I need to use the bathroom," I mumble.
Adam draws himself away from the mirror and stares at me in surprise. "I'm afraid it's not a good time, sweetheart. We're about to go on stage."
"I think I'm gonna be sick," I utter. I'm not lying. I'm about to puke all over McAllister and the posh clothes that they made me wear.
Adam isn't happy. Still, he too seems to sense the urgency. He calls up one of the men in black from security. The man's hand rests on his belt next to his gun.
"Be a good girl, Sarah," Adam orders as I leave. "None of your tricks, okay?"
The man opens the door for me. I walk out and follow him toward the two restrooms at the end of the corridor.
I enter the ladies' room. The security man follows me. The women by the mirror stare first at him, then at me. They must be thinking I'm some kind of celebrity freak who can't even use the bathroom without being accompanied by their bodyguard.
The women put their lipsticks away in their purses and hurry to vacate the room. We're alone now.
I enter the nearest cubicle, lock myself in and look around me in desperation.
This is my only chance to get out of here. But how? I don't want to share McAllister's fate! Nor do I want to be part of Adam's plan. I think I already know what he's about to do. This is going to be a catastrophe!
None of your tricks, Sarah. What a funny way of putting it. Why tricks? I'm not a circus magician, am I?
Strangely enough, the more I concentrate on the idea, the freer I feel. My mind seems to be breaking free of its fetters.
I turn round and stare at the cubicle's white door. I don't need to see the man waiting outside to be able to enter his mind.
He's only a couple of feet away from me. I can feel his chest rising and dropping as he breathes; I can sense his sweaty back that's too hot under his dress jacket.
"Lie down on the floor," I tell him. "Go to sleep."
The door shatters from a powerful blow. I shrink back into the tiny space between the wall and the toilet. Why didn't it work?
The door catch snaps. The door swings open. The man stares at me in silent fury, gun in hand. I can sense anger seething in his chest.
Still, I try again, concentrating on his entire frame.
"Go to sleep," I say, locking my stare with his. "You're tired. Very tired. Lie down on the floor and have some sleep."
He closes his eyes and leans against the door, sliding slowly down. With a yawn, he lies on the floor, lays his head on his gun hand and falls silent.
It worked! I did it!
Still, this isn't the right moment to celebrate. I need to get out of here.
I step over his legs and run out of the bathroom.
Chris
We rented a car at the airport. This time Diana's driving. Ramiro's sitting next to her. Cox has somehow squeezed himself onto the back seat next to me, the top of his head grazing the roof liner.
It takes us half an hour to get to the arena. Diana has arranged with a friend to get passes for us which allow us now to drive directly through.
We turn right and head for the underground parking lot. It's already dark but the area is flooded with li
ghts.
A woman is walking toward us, petite and middle-aged, dressed in a business suit and looking appropriately grim. She's holding a black purse. Her eyes are frowning behind glasses set in a stern square frame. An ID card is hanging around her neck.
This is a businesswoman through and through. Her heels strike a dry, harsh drumbeat on the tarmac.
"Oh no. It's Sybil," Ramiro rolls his eyes.
The woman stops and casts a furtive glance at the guards by the parking lot barrier, then makes a sign to us.
"You sure you can trust her?" I ask.
"We don't have much choice," Ramiro says through clenched teeth. "We already trust you, don't we?"
"She works for Chloe Walker," Diana explains. "Andy Hill introduced us to her. You can't imagine the amount of money the General paid her. So if she doesn't help us now..."
Diana slows the car down and lowers the window. Her face dissolves in a fake smile. "Hi Syb! Fancy seeing you here! How are you?"
Sybil isn't even trying to fake friendliness. She bends down and looks into the car. Her face is tense, her lips pursed.
"There's too many of you," she says, looking over us. I can see she isn't too impressed with how we look.
"Probably not as many as you guys," Diana nods toward the parking lot entrance. "The place must be absolutely crawling with you down there."
Sybil pauses, biting her lip. She's definitely nervous. Afraid, even.
"What do you want here?" she asks.
"Excuse me?" Diana raises an eyebrow in fake surprise. "You don't think we're here to bomb the place, do you? You should know us and our methods by now."
"That's the problem," she snaps. "I don't know any of you," she pauses, thinking. "This is my responsibility... no, sorry. I can't let you in. You'd better go. Now!"
Diana's hand slices through the air like an attacking cobra. Her long fingers grab at the earring in Sybil's left ear and pull it, dragging the woman's head through the car window.
Diana slides her gun barrel between Sybil's pink painted lips. "Your responsibility didn't prevent you from taking our money," she hisses. "It didn't prevent you from copying certain paperwork and handing it over to us, did it? You two-faced bitch! If you don't do what we want you to do, I'll blow your brains out here and now!"
Sybil's teeth grate against the metal as she's trying to say something.
I peer through the windscreen at the guards by the barrier. They don't seem to pay any attention to us. It probably looks as if the woman is leaning into the driver's window to talk to a friend.
"Where are our ID tags?"
"There're here!" Sybil mumbles.
"Four of them?"
"Yes!"
"Give them here," Diana squeezes her ear lobe harder.
Sybil moans in pain. I personally think Diana is overdoing it. Still, I'm not going to interfere.
Sybil reaches into her purse, then slides several plastic cards through the window. Ramiro snatches them from her hand, then throws two of them to Cox and myself.
"Now you go to the guards and tell them to let us through. Tell them we're part of Chloe Walker's..." he pauses, thinking.
"Securithy theam," Sybil offers.
"That's what it says on the cards," I say, pinning mine to my jacket lapel. "We're part of her security team."
"Whatever. As long as they're happy," Diana calms down a little. "Don't do anything stupid. Because if you do, then tomorrow a messenger will arrive at Ms. Walker's office with a fat heap of documents you so kindly copied for us, as well as the tapes of our conversations. Is that clear?"
Sybil manages a nod.
"Good. Now go. Make it quick!"
I had a feeling Diana was going to shove the gun barrel up Sybil's backside that she gets a move on. She doesn't. She moves the gun to her left hand and lays her right one on the steering wheel.
Cox who's been watching the scene gloomily reaches for his own gun and conceals it between his pillar-like legs.
Sybil adjusts her slim skirt and walks away from us, shrugging her shoulders and touching her earlobe. Her left foot gives way under her as if she's a young girl wearing her first heels; she stumbles, waving her hand in the air to keep her balance, then straightens herself and soldiers on.
With a snicker, Ramiro rearranges his jacket to be able to whip out the gun at a moment's notice. We watch as Sybil approaches the security and speaks with them.
The guards turn their heads in our direction. One of them raises the barrier while the other waves us through.
Sybil produces a cell from her purse and brings it to her ear. As we drive past, she turns away from us without looking. The security guards glance over our car; one of them nods to Diana who smiles back, both hands on the steering wheel, the gun tucked away in the side door pocket.
The barrier lowers behind us. We roll down a ramp into the concrete recesses of the underground parking. The ramp turns, spiraling into darkness which is soon replaced by more light.
I fidget in my seat. My heart beats an uneven staccato within my tense ribcage.
You'd think that the emergencies of the last few days would have hardened me - but apparently not. Even the night attack on the Hermetis cars has done nothing to temper my spirit.
As we approach the parking spaces, I say in a low voice. "This albino..."
Diana pauses. "What about him?"
"We haven't found him in the lab. Which means Vector still has him. According to my father, albinos have some very peculiar powers. Could he be here now, helping Vector?"
They seem to give my words some thought. Finally, Ramiro says, "Judging by what Sarah told us, the albino was kept as a prisoner. Then again... I just don't know."
"If we see him, we'll just shoot him," Diana sums up. "No special treatment for any of them."
The parking lot is busy with both cars and people. Our arrival is noticed. The moment Diana slows down, two more guys in black appear out of nowhere and head for our car.
I lay my hand on my Taser. Diana, however, beams at them, pointing at her ID tag.+++
"Ms. Walker's security team, that's right," one of the guys says. "Sybil told us you'd be coming. General security isn't good enough for her, apparently."
"Ms. Walker is a popular lady," Diana offers promptly. "You shouldn't be thinking we're enjoying it. Bad enough having to hang out here all night."
The guard suppresses a smile. "Why, don't you want to hear how our candidates are going to save America?"
"Can't wait," Ramiro mumbles.
The guards leave. Diana parks up. We put our weapons away, smarten ourselves up and get out of the car.
We're all wearing business suits that we put on in the plane so we don't look out of place at this posh gathering. Admittedly, Cox' height and Ramiro's thuggish face can still attract unwanted attention which is why we don't linger in the parking area. We walk as quickly as we can without actually running toward a staircase and begin climbing it.
"Ms. Walker!" Ramiro mumbles sarcastically. "We need to find out where her rooms are."
"Does it really matter?" I ask.
"We're her security, right? Just in case someone... never mind. Di? Where to now? Should we look for McAllister's room? I'm not even sure he's still there. The debates will begin in a moment."
"Yes, we're looking for his room," Diana says. "Sybil described it to me. We find Vector and kill him. He's our top priority. The others can wait."
"I don't think they will," Ramiro adds sarcastically.
Diana pins him down with her glare.
"Okay, okay," Ramiro raises his hands in reconciliation. "But what if Vector's not there? What if he follows McAllister on stage?"
"I don't think so," I say, "but then again-"
"In that case," she interrupts me, "we'll into the auditorium and shoot Vector in front of everybody."
"Good idea!" Cox booms.
None of them seem to even think about Sarah, as if her presence at the scene doesn't mean anything to them. But
it does to me. I keep thinking about her. In fact, I think about her all the time.
I won't let anyone hurt her. They can forget it. And if-
Footsteps approach from above as someone descends the stairs toward us. We look up.
It's Trace and Job, staring down at us.
Sarah
I'm stuck. The bathroom is at the end of the corridor with no other exit. I need to walk all the way back toward the dressing rooms which is way too risky. If someone from Adam's entourage notices me without my bodyguard, I'm finished. And even if I manage to cross the corridor unnoticed and steal back to the parking lot, I'd walk right into Trace and Job, or one of their assistants.
McAllister's room is about thirty feet away. And just in front of it, I see a maintenance man with a bundle of cables turning into a small side corridor.
This is my chance. What's that, the stage exit? I might whip down it and mix with the audience. They wouldn't dare attack me in the crowd.
Suddenly I realize that Adam must have smelled a rat already. His mind is connected to mine, after all. Hurriedly I imagine myself being sick. The taste of bile in my mouth... a lump in my throat...
Focusing on the illusion, I hurry toward the side corridor without taking my eyes off McAllister's door. It's closed. Everybody's too busy fussing around to pay any attention to me.
I study the faces around me until finally I stumble across someone I know. It's Heaven standing by the stairs in a black pant suit, her gaze scanning the faces of all people walking past her.
I suppress the impulse to break into a run. Is she looking for someone? She doesn't appear to have seen me yet.
I duck into a narrow and dark side corridor. Its other end reveals a glimpse of the stage, the blinding lights and the stars and stripes of the stage curtain.
The presenter's loud voice is distorted by the speakers. This is indeed the stage exit.
I inch my way forward. Now I can see the two podiums as well as a semicircular desk in front of the stage. Further up, six stands for the audience fan out from the stage. They're absolutely packed. They also appear to be dusted with snow from the sheer amount of gray heads in the audience. Smiling faces, the rustle of whispered voices.
