“How the hell should I know?” I grumbled in frustration, the jumpsuit now dangling almost forgotten in my limp hands.
But one thing I knew for sure: I hadn't handled that well. I went out to look for him, apologize or something, but all I found was Rafael in the kitchen sitting in Logan's previous seat, drinking a can of Coke. The blood had been cleaned away from the table, and so, I noticed with a quick glance, had the plaster debris Logan had made.
I stood by the door, unsure if I should ask, but when Rafael cocked a knowing eyebrow and lingered his cold gaze on my bare legs, I just gave up—feeling twin pangs of relief and disappointment, and returned to my appointed bedroom, the jumpsuit trailing behind like a sad tail.
I tried to sleep for a while but I was too wired, too frustrated for that, so I just tossed and turned. When the two hours were over, I heard Logan come back, but it was Rafael who came to fetch me. I didn't miss the gesture.
Chapter Fifty-Three
The hours following our departure from Sacramento to Seattle were hectic on my nerves, though every step was very well-timed and organized. Every second brought me closer and closer to the torture chamber that had been haunting me for over a decade. It was like a dream I knew I wouldn't be waking up from anytime soon.
The sureness and confidence of both Rafael and Logan should have eased the anxiety residing in my chest. Should have, but didn't. Their equipment served to emphasize this was not an amateur operation, but something closer to a routine.
It turned out that Douglas, the owner of the basement apartment, had flown to Seattle ahead of us to do some recon and organize whatever we would be needing—pre-raid, raid, and afterwards—but who wouldn't be accompanying us. Logan informed me it was in case “things went to Hell and we needed someone on the outside to bail us out”.
Perhaps Douglas knew this mission was a failure from the beginning and was just smart enough to stay out of it.
And yeah, if I hadn't known the PSS could just make someone they didn't want found disappear, I'd say Logan was just bullshitting me.
Still, I had a hunch there was something more—something off—about this Douglas guy. He had sent a friend of his, a short guy with tattoos in lieu of hair called Pirate, to pick us up from the airport and deliver us to a back road in the middle of nowhere in the woods, which was no more than an overgrown rocky trail with stray, moss-covered thick branches that Pirate or Logan or Rafael had to pull off the path so we could keep going. The roadside where Pirate dropped us was barely recognized as such, so tall was the wild vegetation in this part.
Pirate was also the person who handed us the “supplies and accessories”—a euphemism for weapons—that Douglas had so kindly provided for us.
“Three each, but not her,” Rafael jerked his head in my direction.
I watched as Logan reached inside the military duffle and passed him three grenades, then proceeded to strap three more to a loop on his belt. Apparently, he agreed with Rafael because none were passed to me.
As if I knew how to throw one without having it bounce back.
I felt like an extra in an action-horror film. Not because they didn't pass me any grenades—aside from the Kevlar, all they gave me was a nice form-fitting black spandex suit—but because I was downright clumsy compared to their agile, economic, all-knowing pace.
No matter how much I tried to anticipate what they would do next, what their move would be, I couldn't read them.
And I was a pretty good reader of body language.
Or so I had thought.
It struck me—with a hysterical sense of make-believe—that Logan and Rafael looked like two thugs that emerged from a mobster movie, getting ready for combat. Even Rafael looked good.
They were both dressed in similar black spandex suits, like the one they gave me, although I sensed a worn-out vibe emanating from theirs, not like an aura exactly, but more like the hum of a faraway vehicle, only fainter. It was barely there, and if mine hadn't lacked that vibe, I probably wouldn't have noticed it. My suit was also new, carrying the stiffness only new clothes possess, where theirs had a broken-in feel, like old leather. Another difference between my suit and theirs was the arsenal tucked in the various pockets. So many weapons… My God. They carried enough arm power to support a small war. So much was strapped into the built-in holes and loops of their suits—around their torsos and waists, on their lower backs and thighs—I wouldn't be surprised if the weapons surpassed my weight. As the time of our breach of the fortress grew near, I watched in fascination and trepidation as all sorts of accessories—small cylinder guns, three muzzle submachine guns, grenades, ammunitions, and things I was absolutely sure were illegal in the U.S. were strapped on the various loops on their suits. And oh, let's not forget all the knives. Thin blades seemed to be the preference, although most were different sizes. In fact, Rafael strapped one to his side that was so long, it looked like a short sword.
God, who were these people? I couldn't find any loops that hadn't been filled with something round or sharp.
I wouldn't have minded a few of the throwing knives, though I guess they'd be put to better use with either man. All I had were my talons—and the bracelet, I supposed, still humming softly against my wrist, where Logan had adjusted it to fit during the flight over.
“The chip?” Rafael asked Logan.
“Here,” he replied shortly, placing a hand over what seemed to me like a small pocket over his right breast.
“Ready?”
Logan grunted as he rolled the empty duffle.
I was surprised when Rafael turned to me next. “Ready? You can still back out. There is still time, and no one will blame you if you do.”
“I'm going,” I replied, the knot in my stomach tightening.
Rafael studied my face for a moment, searching for a doubt I knew didn't show. Or maybe it did, because he bared his teeth next, his eyes as cold and unfeeling as a northern winter, and said, “You fuck this up, do anything to jeopardize this mission in any way, and I'll make it my personal goal to hunt you down. You understand me?”
“I'm in,” I said as calmly as possible, knowing Rafael meant every word he said and that he wouldn't stop once he had found me. No, he would make me pay with my blood, drop by slow drop—I could see it in his eyes.
He gave me a short nod and turned to the woods behind him.
As if a warning of sorts, a tiny drop of frigid water fell on my neck and slithered to the edge of the spandex suit, making me shiver from the cold.
I could've left my hair down and protected my neck from the cold, but I had tied it into a bun to keep it from being used as a rope against me. It had happened once before, and I learned my lesson the hard way.
Nearby, no birds sang, no small animals scurried through the woods.
It was all so… eerie.
We were surrounded by trees, tall, billowing figures that covered most of the grey sky from our view. It was only visible when said trees shook with the freezing gale. Some of the trees were already bare, their leaves a carpet for fungi moss. It made for a slippery and treacherous passage.
The moss-covered trees, the carpet of fallen leaves, and the steady sound of water drops from the high above canopy—leftovers from a recent rain—reminded me of a movie where a headless man riding a horse emerged from the roots of an old tree.
It was a perfect set for its replay.
Even the whistle of the wind seemed like a cry of doom.
There was plenty of daylight left yet, but the hike from this point on to the stone wall surrounding the PSS would take us about one hour. Douglas had come ahead of us and marked our trail but, so far, I had seen nothing to suggest as much. In fact, the trees were so close together, we had to move in single file.
* * *
Logan went first, with me in the middle, and Rafael bringing up the rear.
Anyone smart enough could tell those two weren't entirely human just by watching the animalistic way they moved. They dodged and jumped over
fallen logs with the experience and expertise of someone native to these lands.
We would be arriving in the back. Not that security was less there, but because the buildings were closest to the stone wall from there. There were guard posts and guard houses evenly distributed around the wall, along with cameras and heat sensors, so it wouldn't have mattered from which point we penetrated the fortress. This way, at least, we wouldn't have to traverse a long stretch in the open.
Chapter Fifty-Four
Inside the dense woods, twilight ruled. Patches of the gray sky appeared between intervals in the green overhead, along with freezing gusts of wind that made my bare neck freeze. I followed Logan's lead, dodging low branches when he did, jumping fallen mossy logs when he did, and changing directions as the course did. Not once did I find any telltale marks that Douglas left for us to follow. I suppose leaving trails anyone could find was unprofessional and so far, all this group had shown me was the canny zeal of a professional enthusiast who worshiped his job. Perfectionists, really, who wanted their work to be better than just superb.
We ran on a carpet of Douglas fir, rotten leaves and moss, over broken logs and jutting rocks—for what seemed to me like an eternity.
When Logan finally came to a halt, I almost plowed through him. I took a step back before moving to his side. The trees ended about twenty feet ahead and, through the cracks in the woods, artificial high-voltage light illuminated another twenty feet of clear, sandy terrain. On the other side, the PSS's fortress wall loomed.
By then, full darkness had fallen, but no night animals were about.
From where we stood, we could hear the crashing waves of the Sound, about a mile west of the PSS's property.
Logan scanned our surroundings, moving as close as five feet to the edge of the woods. He produced small binoculars from some hidden pocket and started scanning the perimeter again. He wasn't taking any chances that he could miss some small, yet vital detail with what I knew was a superior eyesight.
He moved farther away and out of sight, and neither Rafael nor I spoke a word during the hour and forty-five minutes Logan was gone.
“It's like we already knew,” Logan said when he had finished his surveillance and returned, the binoculars no longer in sight.
“One guard in each house, ten in total, along with sophisticated surveillance equipment between each post.”
Rafael rocked on his feet. “So, do we rock the place or sneak in quietly like smoke thieves?”
Logan looked back at the telltale lights as if contemplating his answer, but it was me he addressed next. “You sure about this? If what you suspect about Archer is right, I'll personally help you.” But that wouldn't change anything. It would only make me indebted to him instead of Archer.
“I'm in,” was all I had to say to convince him. Beside me, Rafael made no snarky comments.
“Then we'll do both,” he informed Rafael.
“The C-4?”
“In place.”
“Then let's party.” As if in accord, his words were followed by a gust of freezing wind. I shivered once, not sure if it was Rafael's words or the dropping temperature that caused it. My stomach felt hollow and I was glad I hadn't eaten anything besides the flat soup.
I felt Logan's eyes on me and turned to look at him. He was watching me, his expression neutral. Before I could say anything, maybe even apologize for my childish behavior earlier that day, a sudden pressure in the air had me whirling around, talons out.
To find Rafael disappearing into a blur of grey and green shimmering veil. In his place a brown rat, no bigger than a foot twitched its whiskers, its dark eyes too wise, too intelligent, too perceptive. It watched me, the bigger predator—with suspicion.
Of course!
I felt a sudden light bulb on top of my head radiate the most brilliant light.
Rafael was a shifter. What was similar to a were, but felt and looked different?
A shapeshifter.
Logan crouched in front of Rafael, presenting him with two thin wires attached to small chips on each end. The rodent took it between his teeth and scurried away.
I watched it go, amazed, then turned to Logan and found him casually unwrapping a stick of gum. He offered me one, and I accepted it, raising my eyebrows at him.
“Keeps the mind sharp,” he said.
I pointed at where Rafael had gone and asked, “What was that?”
“A scrambler. Something that will mess up the cameras and buy us some time.”
“All of them?” I asked, impressed.
“If Rafael successfully uploads it onto the mainframe. For a brief time anyway.”
“What if he can't?”
“He will.”
I paused. “And then?”
“We'll rock 'n' roll.”
“Won't they notice something is wrong?” I persisted, chewing the fruity gum.
“Eventually, yes.”
“What about the sensors and the guards?”
“You'll see.” He motioned me forward, and we both stood watching the nearest guardhouse and waited for some signal that something was happening.
A very long time later—that was probably only a few minutes—Rafael's shimmer reappeared behind the guard in the nearest guardhouse. From this distance I couldn't see the guard's aura, though I was almost sure it would be blue and somewhat blurry. Back in my time at the PSS, guards on patrol duty had almost always been a member of The Elite Team.
A rapid move of Rafael's hand and the guard slumped.
Dead or unconscious?
The crooked angle of the guard's neck answered that question. Cold fingers danced down my spine.
Beside me, Logan stood waiting, unmoved by his friend's cold blood.
Another shimmer in another guardhouse, another figure slumped. The process was repeated over and over, and I was glad I could no longer see it.
I felt like someone had just dumped a bucket of icy water on my head. This was cold-blooded murder. No matter who these people were or what they did for a living, killing them to save Archer did not justify our cause.
Still, I shouldn't have been surprised. With their job description, I bet they've done all kinds of assassinations, breaking and entering, hacking, and God knew what. I'd gotten so involved, I had forgotten—no, I had avoided—seeing what they did for a living. And there was that arsenal…
But—who was I to judge?
About half an hour later Rafael returned, though he came not as a rodent, but in the form of a crow—and shimmered back to his hulking form. He didn't materialize back into a naked man as I had expected, and I realized that the vibe emanating from their clothes was some kind of energy field that enabled his clothes—and weapons—to shift when he did.
Rafael motioned us to go, snapping me out of it, and caused my heart to drum a wild beat.
The coast was clear.
Chapter Fifty-Five
I scaled the PSS's fortress wall in a more dignified way than when I had escaped Remo Drammen's penthouse in Vegas. The wall was smooth stone, slippery from the previous rain, preventing an easy climb, and barbed electric wires topped another seven foot above it. Rafael had disabled the charge and cut a path for us through the wire and, although I never did this kind of thing before, I didn't slow them down or embarrass myself.
Inside the PSS's grounds, I was the expert. Both Rafael and Logan stepped back a pace, ready to follow my lead.
We traversed a good fifty feet in the open, the sky a dark moonless bowl above, to the back entrance of Building A, hidden behind a corner of the edifice and disguised by the same white-washed color present everywhere. We moved purposefully, my heart beating an erratic drum. Every step we took, I waited for the alarm to sound, for a spotlight to fall on us, but we reached the metal door silently, with the sound of the occasional wind shaking the woods we'd left behind the only background noise.
We clustered around the door and waited while Rafael began breaking the security code with a small electronic loc
k pick, a device no bigger than a small scientific calculator.
I looked around us, breathless and scared shitless. I had to get a grip of myself or I'd give us away with some clumsy move.
It was a sterile place, built for maximum security, with no life or color. White cement floor, white painted buildings with the occasional bulletproof glass window. On the other side of Building A, near the double gates—though not visible from where we stood—was a small, but well-guarded parking facility for staff and visitors. It was manned by a guard on the outside and a guard on the inside, with an electric-coded small gate in the middle that could be unlocked by either of the two. Other than that, on a normal day, the only life that could be seen was those of the guards inside each of the guardhouses.
Today, inside most—if not all—of these houses, the guards lay dead.
The small device in Rafael's hand beeped, disengaging the locks, the red display turned green, and the quiet sound of tumblers and a mechanical whir sounded from the metal door ahead. The red eye of the camera above remained aimed at us.
No alarm sounded.
Soon—too soon, we were standing inside the brightly lit corridor of Building A. The white tiled floor gleamed under the strong fluorescent lights and, although we couldn't see them, from every fixture, we were being monitored by cameras and sensors.
Ten feet ahead, the corridor branched left and right. I knew for a fact that there would be nowhere to take cover from this point on. The offices we passed, which were but a few—mostly given to guests for research—would be locked, both manually and electronically. There were no signs indicating which direction to take, or tags to indicate what—or to whom—the rooms belonged. There would be no shadows to hide us, no convenient crates for cover. We would be sitting ducks for any guard that came upon us.
And there we were, dressed in black, contrasting with the whites of the PSS's maze halls.
And the cameras.
Oh God, the cameras.
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