by Dakota Banks
“You should have obeyed the ban on smoking,” she admonished the bloody corpses. “Just look at the mess on this carpet.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Maliha moved rapidly out of the building, because the sound of gunshots, even muffled by the suppressor on the Tavor, should draw a bevy of security forces. She was outside on Wakefield Street, doing her best to look like a patrolling officer in spite of the assault rifle.
Will they let Millhouse go on speaking after finding this room? I wouldn’t.
“Threat eliminated,” Maliha said into her communicator. “Did you hear anything over there?”
She didn’t feel it necessary to explain to Mickey that there had been two men in the room. If he’d taken out one of them with a bullet and assumed the job was done, the spotter might have been able to squeeze off a shot at Millhouse. Both members of the sniper team could handle the rifle.
“No. The crowd’s really wound up. Millhouse will speak in a couple of minutes and I found another sniper.”
Maliha was alarmed. “Where the hell is he?”
“He is a she. She’s in the Central Library—tan, fluted columns, second story, center.”
She. Could be Elizabeth.
“There’s not much time,” Mickey said. “Want me to handle this one?”
“What?” Maliha said.
“You didn’t think I left that beautiful rifle on the plane, did you? I went back for it.”
Shit. Whose side is he on?
“Uh, no. If it’s Elizabeth in the library, a bullet will just make her mad. I’ll go check it out.”
And to do that, I’ll be in Mickey’s gun sight. I don’t even know he’s really where he says he is.
“Okay. Be careful.”
Maliha decided that her safest route would be to stay out of the interior of Civic Square and walk on the boundary streets. Time was pressing, so she found a spot out of sight of most and started running at Ageless speed. She hated vanishing in front of observers’ eyes, especially observers packing cameras.
Maliha ran up Wakefield Street until it joined Victoria, and kept going until she reached the Central Library, which was closed for the day. It wasn’t hard to find a side entrance, but there was an alarm system. As soon as she opened the door, there would be an audible alarm plus an alert at a police station. She checked some windows but it was likely the alarm system would detect the sound of breaking glass. That was the preferred method now, instead of having silver wires around the perimeter of each window.
Is this a wild goose chase to keep me away from Millhouse while Mickey finishes him off? No time to think . . .
She made her decision. Opening the gear bag, she picked out a piece of equipment she’d thought she probably wouldn’t need, but had tossed it in anyway. It was a retractable grappling hook fired from a compressed air gun.
On the roof I’ll be visible to the helicopters and they won’t hesitate to fire. I’d better be moving fast up there.
Maliha shot the grappling hook onto the roof and tested to make sure the rope would hold her weight. She shinnied up the rope and reached to pull up onto the roof of the building.
Elizabeth peered down at her. She didn’t say anything, just slashed both of Maliha’s forearms with a knife.
Expecting her rope to be cut any second, Maliha ignored the pain and levered herself up onto the roof. Elizabeth was gone. There were no helicopters in her immediate vicinity, but she knew she had only seconds to get out of sight. With blood running down her arms, she gathered the rope and grappling hook and ran to the cover of a ventilation shaft. Lifting the heavy cover, she noticed that her arms had been weakened. She got inside the shaft, let the cover drop over her, and hung for a moment on an interior handle on the cover.
Then she let go.
Falling down the shaft, Maliha saw a side opening coming up. Her timing had to be perfect. As she fell past it, she thrust the grappling hook into the metal lining of the opening and felt the prongs bite. Grabbing the rope, she came to an abrupt stop in her fall and instead swung sideways against the metal of the main shaft.
Ow.
She climbed up the side of the shaft, using her feet and the rope. She reached the side opening where she’d snagged the grappling hook and crawled into it.
Once out of danger, the full impact of her wounds struck her. One of the cuts was nearly down to the bone. If Elizabeth had meant to handicap her, she’d done a good job. Maliha tore off the sleeves of her blouse, wrapped the cloth tightly around her wounds, and convinced herself that she felt better. She had to get moving.
She made her way through the ventilation shaft until she found a grill that allowed her entry into a room. After checking that no one was in the room, she kicked the grill with both feet and went through the open rectangle.
It took her a moment to get her bearings. She was on the first floor. She took the stairs, hoping she wouldn’t run into any patrolling guards and for once, her luck held. The sniper was in a room that stored archived media. Maliha quietly picked the lock and planned her next moves. She had to assume there were two people in the room. Turning the doorknob, she eased into the room enough to see the situation.
There were two people near the window. One, a woman, was fingering the trigger of a rifle. The other, a man, crouched next to her with a laptop. He’d cut a small hole in the window and inserted a probe to take readings of outdoor conditions. They both had their backs to her and were intent on what they were doing. Millhouse must be on the stage.
Maliha considered the tranquilizer gun, but its results might not be instantaneous and could cause muscle spasms. The woman’s finger was closing on the trigger. Maliha reached into a vest pocket, took out two throwing stars and sent them whirling through the air at an angle toward the man and woman with a twist of her wrist. The stars separated in midair and hit their targets: the backs of two skulls. Maliha burst into the room, reaching the duo in just a few steps. Taking the woman first, Maliha snapped her neck, then turned her attention to the man. He was on the floor and still alive.
“Don’t . . . don’t . . .” he said.
She saw that the throwing star was not deeply embedded. He might have a chance of survival. Something in her rebelled against killing a man pleading for his life, even if he did work for Elizabeth. He might have been coerced. She shot him with a tranquilizer dart.
He’ll either make it until he’s discovered here or die under sedation. Best I can do right now, since I’m not going to call for an ambulance. Elizabeth’s out there. She’s here to make sure I do the job, and since I’ve made it clear I’m not going to, she’ll have to kill the president and find some way to blame it on me.
Outside, Maliha retrieved her gear bag. There was no pretense now. She discarded her duty belt and vest and strapped her sword on her back. Two gleaming sai were tucked in her remaining belt, the one that served as a sheath for the whip sword. The assault rifle was reluctantly left behind—too much opportunity for collateral damage where so many people were gathered. In the square, she felt vulnerable with Mickey able to spot her. She switched to Ageless speed to conceal her formidable-looking presence from security and from Mickey, in case he wasn’t trustworthy. Dodging through the crowds, she scanned with her aura vision, looking for signs of Elizabeth.
There she is!
Elizabeth was in the clear space between the president and the barriers holding people back from getting too close. Maliha headed for her without daring to think about it. She already knew that her likelihood of stopping Elizabeth was small, especially given her weakened arms. And Maliha knew her chance of surviving a full-on confrontation with Ageless, cruel Elizabeth was even smaller. But if Maliha stopped to think about all those things, she wouldn’t take action.
She leaped the barrier and joined Elizabeth in the open space. An invisible battle began at Ageless speed. Maliha, already weakened from the deep knife gashes, struggled to keep up, but Elizabeth wouldn’t let her rest. Elizabeth fought two handed, a
sword in one hand and a knife in the other, meaning that Maliha’s defense had to be perfectly timed with her sword and a sai, or one of Elizabeth’s two blades would break through it.
While their bodies were invisible to the crowd as long as they kept up Ageless speed, the clanging of their swords was audible. Maliha knew people would be running away in panic from the unexplained sounds of swordplay, and the president would be surrounded and taken away by the Secret Service. Elizabeth was so involved with Maliha in her face that the president was safe—at least for now.
Running out of time and life, Maliha remembered what Master Liu had told her. She began to taunt Elizabeth about her appearance. Bathing in the blood of young girls hadn’t really kept her young and beautiful. It never did work, but Elizabeth’s demon fostered that lie and kept her looking young.
Pulling back, trying to get a little relief from the hammering blows, Maliha said, “You know Tirid will punish you when you fail this assignment. You’ll look like an old hag.”
“I won’t fail. When I’m finished with you, you’ll look like puzzle pieces.”
In spite of her words, Elizabeth faltered just a little at the thought of her demon’s punishment. Maliha reached across her own body with her sword and sliced Elizabeth’s face from her earlobe to her jaw.
“Oh!” Elizabeth said. It was a serious wound, an open flap of flesh baring the bones of her jaw on the left side. Elizabeth desperately wanted to hold it back in place so that it would heal quickly and return her to her beautiful state. To do so, she could fight with only one hand. In her rage and frustration, Elizabeth threw herself at Maliha with all the force an Ageless could muster, and pinned her to the ground. People still nearby were horrified at the sight of the two women suddenly visible in their midst, bleeding and slashing at each other.
This time it was Maliha who was desperate. Master Liu had told her not to let Elizabeth get her on the ground for infighting—that Maliha wouldn’t survive it. Maliha felt the hot penetration of a knife in her side and her whole right side lit up with pain. Her right arm—her sword arm—and leg collapsed briefly, leaving Elizabeth with a solid opening for a fatal blow. Maliha did the only thing she could do. She dropped the sai she held in her left hand, grabbed the flap of skin from Elizabeth’s face, and pulled as hard as she could.
Elizabeth screamed in pain and rolled off Maliha, leaving Maliha clutching a hunk of bloody flesh. Maliha rose to her knees, getting as much use from her numb right leg as she could. Clasping her belly in sudden agony, Maliha felt the acid trails of small footprints moving across her skin. She was being rewarded by Anu for taking out the snipers and saving the lives of their future victims.
Shit, not now!
Elizabeth, far quicker to recover, was on her feet and heading toward Maliha fast, with her sword ready. Suddenly Elizabeth was jolted forward once, and then again.
Shot from the back. Mickey!
Maliha struggled to her feet, pain screaming from her midsection as the pans of the scale began to shift and seek a new balance. She swung her sword one handed as Elizabeth fell toward her. Elizabeth’s head and body crashed separately to the tiles of the square. Her eyes wide open in surprise, Elizabeth’s head had a few moments to absorb what had happened to her before her brain shut down.
By that time, Maliha was gone, using the last of her energy and her greatest tolerance of pain for an invisible sprint from Civic Square.
Chapter Forty
Vice President Cameron was at work in his office on the first floor of the West Wing, the same floor as the Oval Office, the room he desperately sought. He was plowing through a budget bill in order to offer his suggestions to the president. His suggestions hadn’t been solicited, but that never deterred Cameron. The site of his gunshot wound ached, but that was a private matter and he had to put up a good public front.
Between flipping one page and the next, he vanished.
Cameron found himself in an area of dense fog. Ice crystals formed on his skin, as though he were standing in a freezing rain. The cold affected his entire body, and he looked down to see that he was naked. The fog was so thick he couldn’t see anything lower than his knees, and when he tried to move, he discovered he was stuck in place.
“What the fuck is going on here?” he shouted. There was no answer. He squirmed, but the fog might as well have been concrete. Cameron continued to shout until his indignation turned to fear and then to pleading. Tears poured from his eyes and froze on his cheeks.
I’m going to die here.
He had no idea how long he’d been in the fog when it started to thin. A shape approached, something that rang alarms of horror in his mind. The fog swirled as the creature moved, and the air movement brought a terrible stench Cameron’s way. The odor was something unclean, born of the charnel house and the battlefield, of putrefaction in dark, hidden places. Streams of foul brown fog came toward him, and where they touched his skin, the ice crystals were displaced by slime that sickened him. He vomited and felt the spew cascade down his body, but couldn’t move.
Finally the creature stood in front of him, and he couldn’t avert his eyes. What he saw was over ten feet tall and spherical. In the center of the sphere was a cavity with rings of vicious, inward-pointing fangs. As Cameron watched, the muscular action around the mouth—for it had to be one—moved the fangs in waves. He stared. It was both hypnotic and terrifying. He felt a warm stream of urine on his legs. When he was able to take his eyes from the mouth, he noticed that the creature had four arms, each ending in four claws that dripped blood and flesh from its last victim. There were no eyes, at least none that Cameron could discern.
“I am the demon Tirid.”
The sound was so loud that it burst both of Cameron’s eardrums. Blood ran down his cheeks. Inner ear damage muffled the rest of the sounds he heard. He was too stunned to say anything in response to Tirid.
“My Ageless slave Elizabeth was advancing your plan at my direction. She no longer lives. A valuable asset has been lost because of you.”
Cameron summoned what presence of mind he had left. “I . . . I had nothing to do with her death.”
He’d only recently learned that she was dead. The information came as a shock to him, as the most promising path to the Oval Office had just crumbled beneath his feet.
Tirid roared with anger. Cameron was unable to cover his painful ears, unable to protect himself in any way. The demon’s claws clacked together in a menacing way.
“It matters not what you did or did not do. You are at fault. I do not tolerate the loss of my slave from any hand but my own.”
An odd calmness took hold of Cameron. He was doomed and there was nothing he could do about it but silently curse the day Elizabeth had stepped into his life.
Tirid moved close and began to use his claws to rend the object of his anger.
I failed, Cameron thought, and then thought no more.
Chapter Forty-One
Amaro arranged Maliha’s pickup for medical evacuation to the Clinic des Montagnes, where Dr. Corvernis tsk-tsked over her, asked no questions, and supported her recovery with his medical skill, his dry sense of humor, and the clinic’s excellent cuisine. Mickey went back to the States.
Either Mickey was with me all along or he was forced to work for Elizabeth and took the opportunity to help eliminate his tormentor. Either way, he gets a passing grade with me.
The morning after she arrived, Hound came limping in holding a computer printout.
It was the headline of the Chicago Tribune: VICE PRESIDENT DIES IN ROOM PROTECTED BY SECRET SERVICE. Then he showed her the Enquirer version: VP GOES TO PIECES!!
“I think I know what happened,” she said. “Elizabeth’s demon blamed Cameron for her death. He was taken to the Midworld, ripped apart, and put back in his office.”
“Gotta love those demons,” Hound said.
Maliha glared at him.
“Well, you have to admit this saved us some trouble.”
“I see y
our point,” Maliha said. “But don’t start admiring demons. Roger Cameron died a horrible death. A bullet to the head would have accomplished what I wanted without all that torture.”
If I’d killed the bastard, I would have gotten a bonus from Anu. This way I didn’t get any credit.
“You getting soft in your old age?” Hound said.
“Not at all. Just getting some perspective.”
“The considerate assassin,” he said.
“The considerate seeker of justice.”
“Now we’re getting politically correct. You can use that shit on the others. I’ll stick with assassin.”
She shrugged. She was happy Cameron was gone, and Hound was being Hound. He kept her company telling stories from his Vietnam days, all of which she’d heard before. He had a smile on his face these days, since Glass was back at his side, staying at the clinic. His injuries weren’t severe, and soon he was complaining, impatient to get away from revealing hospital gowns and back to his work as a private investigator.
Yanmeng was mending, at least physically. He’d lost a hand, which would be fitted for a smart prosthetic when the time came—one that reacted to his thoughts. His foot replantation looked good so far and he was starting to regain some control, but it would be a long haul to full recovery—and there was no guarantee of that.
The missing strip of skin had been replaced with artificial skin, and it was taking well. The remaining lower layer of Yanmeng’s skin was growing upward into the scaffolding of the artificial skin. Growing in the lab was a sheet of real epidermis, the outer layer of skin, started from Yanmeng’s cells. At the right time, real skin and artificial would meet and marry.
Jake. He’s going to visit me. What do I say?
She pushed the thought aside. She’d have to wing it when he arrived, depending on what he said and how he acted. She didn’t have long to wait. He showed up the next morning with a huge bouquet of flowers. Hound was in the room with her, but he left immediately when Jake walked in.
