by Greg Rucka
She moved the camspy closer.
“ … you got my name?” the woman was asking. She spoke in English; there was a slight, indeterminate southern European accent to her words.
“A man in Zurich,” Laurent told her. “Had some interesting things to say about Portia de Carcareas.”
“I highly doubt that. I highly doubt my name was mentioned at all.”
“Let’s say it came up late in the conversation.”
Through the camspy’s distortion, Jo saw the woman frown.
“Why should I believe anything you are telling me?” she asked him.
“You don’t have to believe it, Miss Carcareas, I’m sure you can check it for yourself. R-C/Bowman can’t mobilize the troops required quickly and quietly at the same time. You look, you’ll see I’m telling the truth.”
“I don’t know who you are, Mister Hayes. I have no reason to believe what you’re telling me is true.”
“Fine, don’t believe me. But when Core-Mantis loses the Hovoro facility, you’ll know I was …”
“What?”
Through the camspy, Jo saw Laurent raise a finger to the woman, Carcareas, gesturing her silent. Very slowly, and just as deliberately, the young man began to turn in place, looking around the alley, obviously searching for something.
Bloody hell, Jo thought. He’s seen it, he knows it’s there. Even knowing it was coming, the move caught Jo by surprise. One moment Laurent had been standing still, scanning the alley, and in the next he’d lunged, and Jo herself recoiled as his hand came at her, and then her vision flared again, aperture crazed, and the vertigo she felt made it seem like she’d been dropped into a spinning top. Feedback screeched in her ears, and she brought her hands up, yanked the eyeglasses from her head, throwing them to the ground.
At which point she could focus on the world around her, rather than the world around the camspy, and, particularly, the two men in Core-Mantis security uniforms who were pointing their pistols at her head.
CHAPTER 24
The Money Pit—337 West 78th Street, New York City, New York October 10th, 2020
Hayes threw the little metal ball with a curse, hurling it as hard as he could at the alley wall. It shattered instantly, as if made of eggshell, embedding bits of wiring and shattered glass into the brick.
“It’s local,” he growled at Carcareas. “The control on these things is always local, whoever was spying on us is around here somewhere!”
Carcareas was staring at him, but she didn’t speak, and after a moment she put a hand to her ear, and Hayes understood why.
“You brought backup.” He knew he sounded stunned. He couldn’t help it. He had specified that she meet him alone, and he hadn’t made any backup security when he reconnoitered the meet site.
“You’re dataDyne. Of course I brought backup,” Carcareas told him, and then, before he could respond, added, “They’ve caught her.”
“Good, let’s have some—” Hayes spun toward the restaurant, starting for the kitchen door, then stopped. “—her?”
“It’s a woman, young, they’re bringing her out here now.”
Oh please, Hayes thought. Oh please let it be her.
That would be perfect, that would make it all better, if it was the Carrington Institute bitch who’d escaped from him on the rooftop, the redheaded nightmare who’d managed to live when she damn well should’ve died. Then Hayes could redeem himself in his father’s eyes, hell, he could redeem himself in his own. She shouldn’t have escaped him then; he sure as hell wasn’t about to let her do it a second time.
“Tell them to bring me a knife,” Hayes told Carcareas. “From the kitchen, to bring me a knife.”
“I’m not going to stand here and watch you commit murder in an alley,” Carcareas said icily.
“Then go,” Hayes retorted. “But if this bitch was spying on us, she’s not leaving here alive.”
Carcareas studied him, the corners of her pouting mouth turned down in disapproval. “We’ll see.”
Hayes shrugged, looking back toward the exit from the kitchen. He hadn’t thought Carcareas would be squeamish, but then again, he hadn’t thought she’d be such a looker, either, so it only proved there was a lot he didn’t know. It didn’t matter if Portia de Carcareas didn’t want bloodstains on her Italian leather boots. Even if the spy wasn’t the same redhead, the spy was going to have to die.
Eventually, Hayes thought, and smiled.
After another second, the smile faltered. No one had emerged from the kitchen as of yet. Hayes was reasonably certain that someone should have done so already.
Apparently, Carcareas agreed, because he heard her murmuring into her Core-Mantis ThroatLink, and even standing less than a foot away, Hayes couldn’t make out what she was saying. dataDyne personnel favored subcutaneous button radios, inserted beneath the skin behind the ear or sometimes actually inside the ear canal, but in either case, it was an outpatient procedure, quick and relatively painless. Core-Mantis, Hayes knew, preferred to chip, modify, and otherwise alter their key personnel with their own tech. In the case of radios, this meant an operation to insert the microphone into the throat, and then to run companion leads along the bone to both ears. It provided for stereo sound, quieter transmission and reception, and, as a result of the adaptive surgery, was much harder to destroy than a simple subcutaneous model.
In Hayes’s experience, in fact, the best way to destroy a Core-Mantis ThroatLink was to remove its user’s throat.
“They’re not responding,” Carcareas told him. “Something’s happened.”
Without a word, Hayes sprinted for the kitchen, and this time, Carcareas moved to follow him.
Both guards were out cold in the hallway by the bathrooms, one slumped over the other, and that confirmed it for him. It was the redheaded bitch, it had to be. Hayes turned the filleting knife he’d grabbed on his way through the kitchen in his hand, flipping it from a cutting to a stabbing grip. Both guards appeared to still be alive, and that surprised and puzzled him. If he’d had to put them down, he’d have done it so they never got up again.
He was even more confused to see that they each still had their side arms, their Core-Mantis-issued Regulator semiautos.
Carcareas was speaking to her ThroatLink again, murmuring softly.
“Any sign of her?” Hayes demanded.
Carcareas ignored him, listening to the voices in her head for a moment before saying, this time loud enough for Hayes to hear, “All right, Sergeant. Withdraw.”
“You’re joking,” Hayes said.
“Why would I joke?” Carcareas said. “She has escaped, and I doubt we are going to find her.”
“We can’t let her get away!”
“Why not?” Carcareas looked at him, sincerely curious. “If she is working for Sexton, then he’ll abort the attack on Hovoro.”
“She doesn’t work for Sexton!”
Carcareas arched an eyebrow. “Oh? You know this woman, do you?”
“It’s not like that! She’s a Carrington Institute agent, I’m sure of it, I’ve mixed it up with her once already. We need to find her, keep her from reporting!”
Carcareas gave him the same frown she’d shown him outside in the alley, her expression both displeased and annoyed. “Why would Carrington care if dataDyne’s attack on Hovoro succeeds or not?”
He doesn’t give a damn about Hovoro, it’s about finding Rose! Hayes almost shouted at the woman, but he caught himself before the words flew from his lips. He couldn’t mention Rose, he realized. He couldn’t even hint that Carrington might be after something at Hovoro, for fear that Carcareas would realize that Hayes was, as well. He couldn’t tell her anything, and already he’d said too much, and now he was in danger of blowing it again, failing his father again.
Just the thought of it made the back of his neck itch, made the dermal burn on his flesh.
“Carrington’s a troublemaker,” Hayes said, and it wasn’t a lie. “There’s no telling what he’ll do.”<
br />
“I don’t care about Daniel Carrington or his Institute, and neither do my superiors, Mister Hayes,” Carcareas said. “The Institute seems quite content to be a thorn in dataDyne’s side, which is good for our business. If this spy is from his organization, she’s after you, not me. If the spy is from Sexton, then Hovoro is safe. And if the spy isn’t, and Sexton intends to do as you say, then we’ll be ready for him. There’s certainly no downside to us—so there’s no reason I need to spend any more time in your company.”
Hayes pointed the filleting knife at her, furious at himself for his mistake, furious at her for her logic. “No! You can’t just …”
Then his voice faltered as Carcareas stepped closer, brushing his knife hand lightly aside, until she had almost pressed her body to his. Her eyes were fixed on his own, and he felt the wash of body heat leaking through her clothes to touch his own skin, and the sensation surprised him, stole his breath. His heart was suddenly thumping, the arousal he was now feeling almost blindingly intense.
“What are you doing?” His throat had gone tight, his voice nothing more than a croak.
She made a soft clucking noise, her eyes still fixed on his own. “Now, now, Mister Hayes. Surely you don’t believe that pharmaDyne is the only corporation with an interest in chemical performance enhancers?”
He tried to think of something useful to say, but his mind wouldn’t focus. Her blouse was black silk, clinging to her skin, and when she took a breath, he saw the pulse at her throat, found himself imagining what it would be like to taste her flesh.
Carcareas moved her mouth along his cheek, brushing it with her lips, until she reached his ear.
“Mister Hayes,” she whispered. “Our business is concluded. If you insist on creating a bloodbath, please wait until well after I’ve left the premises.”
And she ran a finger across his chest, the sensation an ecstatic burn that made his muscles tremble, and then her heat and her voice and her touch were all gone. He heard the door to the main room open as she passed through it, the burst of noise, then the muted cacophony as it fell closed again. He tried to control his breathing, tried to get it to slow, and his heart was still racing, and he could feel the perspiration beginning to run in beads down the back of his shirt.
The door to the men’s room opened, and the redheaded bitch stepped into the hall, and before Hayes could do anything at all, she kicked him twice. Her first kick took his knife hand, broke his grip on the blade, sending it into the wall point-first. Her second kick took him in the side of the right knee and sent him down face-first. He tried to move and his muscles obstinately refused to obey, still reeling from Carcareas’s chemical seduction.
“Guess she’s what we’d call a praying mantis,” the redhead said. She had an accent, Hayes realized, some mutt mixture of limey, South African, American, Aussie, and maybe a half dozen other sounds he couldn’t place.
Pain seared across the back of his scalp, the redhead taking hold of his hair and yanking it back, pulling his head along with it. Again Hayes tried to move, to fight it, and this time he felt his limbs twitch, their life returning, but it wasn’t enough.
“Oooh, interesting,” he heard the redhead say, twisting his hair in her hand, pulling it away from the back of his head, revealing his faded prison ID tattoo. “Let’s see if I can remember this. Seven-one-four-eight-seven-six-zed-two-zed-five.”
“Kill you,” Hayes managed to say. He thought his voice sounded like a child’s.
“You’re welcome to try,” the redhead said, and then he felt her fingers on his skin, felt them digging at the side of the dermal. “Of course, I suspect you’ll have some trouble managing it without this.”
Then she tore the dermal free from his skin.
Hayes started to scream.
Then he felt a brick smash into the back of his head, and he saw red, and then nothing.
RETURN-PATH:
ENVELOPE-TO: [email protected]
DELIVERY-DATE: MON, 07 OCT 2020 00:49:37
RECEIVED: FROM EVERYMAN BY BERMCTDA.DNSROUTER.COM WITH LOCAL-BSMTP (EXIM 4.44)
FROM: “NULLGGRRL”
TO: [email protected]
SUBJECT: BY ANY OTHER NAME
DATE: MON, 07 OCT 2020 21:48:01 +0100
—=_NEXTPART_000_0066_01C5833D.8BDC6E10
CONTENT-TYPE: TEXT/PLAIN;
CHARSET=“ISO-8859-1”
CONTENT-TRANSFER-ENCODING: QUOTED-PRINTABLE
OLD MAN—
I WAS HOPING TO HAVE HEARD SOMETHING FROM YOU BY NOW REGARDING YOUR HORTICULTURAL INQUIRY. THAT I HAVEN’T GIVES ME CAUSE FOR CONCERN. WHILE I REALIZE THAT IT WAS I WHO ASKED THAT WE GIVE OUR RELATIONSHIP A SABBATICAL FOR THE TIME BEING, I DID SO WITH THE HOPE THAT THERE WOULD BE SOME MANNER IN WHICH WE COULD, AT THE LEAST, CONTINUE OUR COMMUNICATION.
OR, TO PUT IT MORE BLUNTLY, I MISS YOU.
PLEASE LET ME KNOW IF YOUR INQUIRIES TURN UP ANYTHING TO AID ME, AS YOU PROMISED.
C
RETURN-PATH:
ENVELOPE-TO: [email protected]
DELIVERY-DATE: TUE, 08 OCT 2020 16:07:11
RECEIVED: FROM EVERYMAN BY BERMUDA.DNSROUTER.COM WITH LOCAL-BSMTP (EXIM 4.44)
FROM: “NULLGGRRL”
TO: [email protected]
SUBJECT: THAT OTHER THING
DATE: TUE, 08 OCT 2020 16: 07: 11 +0100
—=_NEXTPART_000_0066_01C5833D.8BDC6E10
CONTENT-TYPE: TEXT/PLAIN
CHARSET= ISO-8859-1″
CONTENT-TRANSFER-ENCODING: QUOTED-PRINTABLE
OLD MAN—
I‘VE DONE A LITTLE DIGGING ON MY OWN, AND FOUND A ROSE IN A VERY INTERESTING GARDEN. IS THIS WHAT YOU WERE LOOKING FOR? NOW MY CURIOSITY IS PIQUED.
PLEASE RESPOND. YOUR SILENCE GIVES ME CAUSE FOR CONCERN, AND I AM IN A SOMEWHAT AWKWARD POSITION HERE, AS I AM AFRAID I MAY HAVE COMPROMISED MY POSITION BY GRANTING YOU THE INFORMATION YOU REQUESTED.
I ASK YOU TO PUT MY MIND AT EASE, AS YOU HAVE SO MANY TIMES IN THE PAST.
MISSING YOU.
C
RETURN-PATH:
ENVELOPE-TO: [email protected]
DELIVERY-DATE: WED, 09 OCT 2020 11:32:01
RECEIVED: FROM EVERYMAN BY BERMUDA.DNSROUTER.COM WITH LOCAL-BSMTP (EXIM 4.44)
FROM: “NULLGGRRL”
TO: [email protected]
SUBJECT: RE: GRINDING STONE
DATE: WED, 09 OCT 2020 11:32:01 +0100
—=_NEXTPART_000_0066_01C5833D.8BDC6E10
CONTENT-TYPE: TEXT/PLAIN;
CHARSET=“ISO-8859-1”
CONTENT-TRANSFER-ENCODING: QUOTED-PRINTABLE
OLD MAN—
WELL, ANY REPLY IS BETTER THAN NONE, BUT I FIND IT HARD TO BELIEVE THAT YOUR INQUIRIES HAVE YET TO BEAR FRUIT. YOU KNOW ME, AND YOU KNOW THAT I CAN BE VERY PATIENT WHEN A) IT IS REQUIRED, AND B) WHEN IT SUITS.
MY FEAR IS THAT THE CLOCK IS RUNNING, AND THAT I WILL HAVE LITTLE TO NO TIME TO ACT ON WHATEVER INFORMATION YOU UNCOVER. AND THE GOAL IS STILL TO AID ME IN THIS PARTICULAR PURSUIT, IS IT NOT?
IT WOULD HELP A GREAT DEAL IF YOU COULD AT LEAST GIVE ME SOME INDICATION OF WHAT IT IS YOU ARE LOOKING FOR RE: THE FLOWER YOU SEEM SO INTERESTED IN. AT THE LEAST, PERHAPS I CAN OFFER ASSISTANCE. AT THE MOST, I MAY BE ABLE TO SUPPLY WHATEVER PIECES OF THE PUZZLE YOU ARE MISSING.
OH, AND THANK YOU FOR THE NEW BOUQUET. THE FLOWERS, AS ALWAYS, WERE STUNNING. THEY’RE SITTING ON MY DESK RIGHT NOW.
C
RETURN-PATH:
ENVELOPE-TO: WALKINGSTICK@ANONYMITY. COM
DELIVERY-DATE: FRI, 11 OCT 2020 12:28:33
RECEIVED: FROM EVERYMAN BY BERMUDA.DNSROUTER.COM WITH LOCAL-BSMTP (EXIM 4.44)
FROM: “NULLGGRRL”
TO: [email protected]
SUBJECT: YOU’LL FORGIVE ME
>
DATE: FRI, 11 OCT 2020 16:07:11 +0100
—=_NEXTPART_000_0066_01C5833D.8BDC6E10
CONTENT-TYPE: TEXT/PLAIN;
CHARSET=“ISO-8859-1”
CONTENT-TRANSFER-ENCODING: QUOTED-PRINTABLE
OLD MAN—
I GOT TIRED OF WAITING, SO I WENT LOOKING ON MY OWN.
I KNOW WHO HE IS, AND I KNOW WHAT HE DID.
ARE WE STILL ON THE SAME SIDE?
BECAUSE I AM BEGINNING TO BELIEVE THAT IS NO LONGER THE CASE.
C
P. S. OH, ABOUT THE FLOWERS. I FOUND THE TRANSMITTER, DANIEL.
THINK ABOUT THAT.
THEN THINK ABOUT WHO IT IS YOU’RE DEALING WITH.
THEN THINK ABOUT WHETHER OR NOT YOU WANT TO CONTINUE DEALING WITH ME IN THIS FASHION.
CORDIALLY,
C
CHAPTER 25
DataFlow Corporate Headquarters-Office of Chief Executive Officer and Director Cassandra Devries—#7 Rue de la Baume, Paris, France October 11 th, 2020
