In the Ruins (Metahuman Files Book 2)

by Hailey Turner

  Kyle narrowed his eyes, watching the way the fabric of his vest pulled when he breathed, the way the textured fabric bunched over something underneath.

  Madison? Kyle asked harshly.

  I need a better look, but yes, I think so, she sent back.

  Guys? Katie asked, their tense exchange drawing her attention.

  Give us a minute.

  Kyle stepped closer, hiding the snap of his wrist that released a ceramic knife into his palm with a turn of his body. He flattened his fingers against the blade, tucking it against the man’s side, hiding the threat in a gesture of apologetic concern.

  “Let’s find the bathroom, shall we?” Kyle asked around a smile that was all teeth.

  The fact that the man knew what a blade felt like when it pressed up against his kidney, even through his bulk, told Kyle he wasn’t on the up and up at all.

  “We’ll be right back with your husband, ma’am,” Madison said with a polite tip of her head in the lady’s direction. “Excuse us, please.”

  “Do go clean yourself up, Albert,” his wife sniffed, apparently more concerned about their appearance than her husband’s underhanded dealings that had brought them here.

  “I—” Albert said, sweat breaking out on his brow.

  “Now,” Kyle ordered in a low, harsh voice.

  They went, with Madison and Kyle escorting Albert to the nearest bathroom, which was located in a hallway off an exhibit room and near a set of stairs that led to the first level. They made polite apologies in the form of small talk in case anyone was watching, but Albert didn’t seem to want to fight them.

  No one was in the men’s toilet when they went inside. Kyle put his back against the door immediately, leaning his weight against it to keep it shut. He watched Madison push Albert against the wall beside him, her mouth twisting in concentration as she patted him down.

  “You have no right—!” Albert began in a ragged voice, raising one hand to smack her.

  Kyle caught his wrist, yanking it backward even as Madison clamped a hand over the man’s mouth to muffle his scream of pain. “Don’t even think about it. Madison?”

  “Suicide bomb vest,” she grimly said, the fingers of her free hand gently tracing over the fabric. “I need your knife.”

  Kyle wordlessly handed it over, catching Albert’s eye. “You make a sound, she’ll cut your throat.”

  Albert whimpered, eyes rolling in his head from fear, but he didn’t move to defend himself. Kyle watched as Madison carefully undid the buttons of Albert’s tuxedo jacket and then his vest, peeling the layers back. Hidden beneath the vest were tangles of wire, thin plastic tubing, and clear, flat plastic containers holding chemicals in separated compartments that, when combined, would produce a lethal dose of Splice. All of it was run through a plastic explosive flattened against the fabric by way of mesh netting. Kyle could see other mechanical components of the bomb, even if he couldn’t identify each piece, but he still knew what the entire picture represented.

  “How the hell did they get this through security?” Kyle wanted to know.

  “Probably wasn’t our people manning the scanners,” Madison said. She tapped the ceramic blade against Alfred’s red, sweaty face, gaining his entire attention. “Who detonates? You or someone else?”

  “Me.” Albert sniffled loudly, a bead of sweat trickling down his forehead and over his nose. “Please, you have to stop them! I didn’t want to do this!”

  Madison ignored his pleas. “How many of you are there?”

  “I—I don’t know!” He licked his lips nervously, eyes wide and blinking rapidly. “I don’t know! It arrived with the suit and I—just put it on. I don’t know why, but I wanted to.”

  Albert sounded confused at that admission, but Kyle was a little more familiar now with the havoc the mental powers could wreak on an unguarded mind.

  “Jansen probably got to him,” Kyle said.

  “Well, shit,” Madison said right before punching Albert in the face to knock him out. She caught him with a grunt and Kyle moved to help her hold him steady.

  Splice bombs are being worn by suicide bombers, Kyle called out to the others through Katie’s telepathic links. They’re on attendees. Don’t know how many, but I’m guessing enough to do a lot of damage.

  Kyle tuned out the swearing going on in his mind that wasn’t his own.

  Kyle and Madison carefully guided Albert’s heavy bulk to the floor. Madison quickly and decisively cut through what she needed to in order to disarm the suicide bomb vest. She found the small detonator hidden in the man’s pocket and held it up for Kyle to see.

  “Not a dead man’s switch, which means they aren’t going for a fail-deadly method here. My guess is the Pavluhkins think Jansen can override the emotions of the suicide bombers and convince them they want to blow themselves up,” she said.

  “Guess Cillian is really pulling out all the stops to show off his work. Let’s hide this asshole in a stall and get moving.”

  Between the two of them, they hauled the unconscious man—who really needed to go on a diet—into the stall farthest from the door. Madison cut the vest off him and carefully pulled it free. She shoved it into the garbage bin at the sink on their way out, pushing it all the way to the bottom. With the detonation components disarmed and the chemicals still separated within their individual compartments, it wasn’t nearly as dangerous as when it was armed and being worn.

  “How the hell are we supposed to figure out who’s wearing them?” Kyle hissed as they hurried down the stairs back to the first floor. “Spill drinks on everyone and offer to help clean them up?”

  “That’s a terrible plan,” Madison said. Donovan? We’re gonna need your eyes.

  I’ve found two in the gallery I’m in right now and looking for more, Donovan said. Sean, ETA?

  We’re on the second floor and will work our way through the guests up here, Sean replied.

  Donovan? Aren’t you supposed to be watching Jamie’s six? Kyle asked.

  The movers and shakers are in the garden. Bodyguards weren’t allowed. Jamie is meeting with Stanislav Pavluhkin and he told me to wait behind.

  Kyle wanted to yell about leaving Jamie alone, but he knew it was pointless. They were running this mission by enemy rules at this point and the team had to compensate. That meant splitting up.

  I’ll head back to Jamie. See if I can’t talk my way past the guards, Kyle said.

  Good luck.

  I’ve notified the UMG metahumans on site. Madison, make your way to me. I’ll start telepathically scanning guests in my vicinity and separating everyone as discreetly as I can. I’ll need you to disarm the bombs in my area, Katie said.

  Do we even know when they’re supposed to go off? Annabelle asked.

  Let’s work under the assumption of soon.

  Kyle and Madison worked their way through several galleries dedicated to Asian arts and crafts before they split up. Kyle kept heading toward the center of the museum where the garden courtyard was located. He glimpsed the museum shop through an archway in passing, with many people milling about in the central area, listening to what sounded like a live orchestra that he couldn’t see.

  He came into the sculpture gallery he’d left Jamie in less than an hour ago, eyes darting from side to side as he maneuvered through the groups of people. Kyle dodged around a server with an array of floating trays half-filled with food, twisting his body between the backs of two people that marked the space between two groups. As he did so, he caught a flash of blonde hair and a familiar profile.

  Oksana, bodyguards at her back, with Stanislav Pavluhkin by her side.

  Pavluhkin is on the move, Kyle announced.

  No one immediately responded to him, so Kyle changed directions, keeping an eye on the Russians heading with unerring strides for the Exhibition Road exit.

  Correction. Pavluhkin is leaving. Where are we with the bombs?

  Not finished, Katie growled. Stay on them. If we can keep them within the propose
d quarantine zone, we can get a sample of their DNA through the release protocols.

  Kyle swore under his breath. They were running out of time. Knowing that letting Pavluhkin and Oksana out of his sight would end badly, Kyle altered course just enough to bring him to the bar across the way from him. He cut in line, ignoring the angry couple behind him, and smiled grimly at Samaira dressed up in the black and white uniform of a bartender.

  “I need a Queen’s Special,” Kyle said.

  A hand slammed down on his left shoulder. Kyle reacted without thinking, grabbing the man’s wrist and twisting under his arm to wrench it nearly out of the socket even as he wrapped his hand around the man’s throat and squeezed. His date screamed, while several other people scattered. This wasn’t the kind of scene Jamie would be happy about, but Kyle didn’t care.

  “I’m in a hurry, so why don’t you back the fuck off?” Kyle growled as his fingers pressed down hard over the man’s carotid arteries.

  Kyle didn’t expect a response, considering how badly the man was choking against the pressure of Kyle’s grip. Kyle shoved the man away from him, watching as he fell on his ass at the feet of several guests who hurriedly scattered. Kyle turned back to the bar, relieved to see Samaira holding a black case out for him to take.

  “Thanks,” Kyle said, snatching the case and breaking into a run, not bothering to keep to up his cover any more.

  He’d lost sight of Pavluhkin in his stopover for gear, but Kyle was a Strike Force scout sniper. Tracking his target in a crowd like this was difficult, but not impossible. He was almost to the Exhibition Road exit when he caught a glimpse of Oksana’s bright blonde hair, the two of them disappearing down the stairs to the lower level.

  Kyle picked up the pace and reached the top of the stairs in time to see a group of armed men rounding the landing. Kyle threw himself to the side with war-honed instincts as bullets from automatic rifles ripped through the space he’d been standing in.

  “Get down!” he barked over the screams of nearby guests.

  Kyle slammed his way out the doors leading to the Exhibition Road, case in hand as he ran for cover.

  Gear up! he snarled through the mental links. We got hostiles and they’re coming up from the tunnel entrance! I’m going after Pavluhkin!

  Kyle ran, putting distance between himself and the entrance in case any of the shooters came out. He opened the case as he ran, pulling out a 9mm tactical handgun and a few mags of extra ammo that he shoved in his pocket.

  Armed, Kyle pulled the nanotech strips out of his pocket and slapped them onto his face as he headed at a dead run for South Kensington Station. The tunnel that ran under Exhibition Road linked the Underground station to the Victoria and Albert Museum and terminated near Albert Hall by Hyde Park. There was a fifty-fifty chance Kyle was running in the wrong direction—maybe Pavluhkin had a pickup ready to go near Hyde Park—but if there was one thing Kyle knew about the enemy, it was that they liked to hide.

  If you wanted to get lost in a crowd in London and hide your tracks, the best way to do that was by taking the Underground.

  The central garden courtyard of the Victoria and Albert Museum was surrounded by the four wings of the museum, the red-bricked façade appearing burnished in the soft glow of the lights floating in the air. Usually the garden courtyard was open to the sky and the daily elements, but during winter, the museum erected a biodome roof over it. The panels were anchored to the museum’s own roof edges and arched over the garden courtyard, programmed to showcase the Milky Way in a clear night sky. Environmentals worked to chill the air and create artificial snow, turning the garden courtyard into a miniature winter wonderland.

  Jamie left Donovan behind in the sculpture gallery with all the other bodyguards hovering at the garden doors while their charges mingled out of sight. The cold hit him in the face, the abrupt temperature change chilling, but not precisely uncomfortable for him. He’d slogged through worse during training. Snow fell in a soft dusting onto the guests who merited a meeting with the man who’d brought them all together tonight, though several didn’t seem enamored of the cold.

  Jamie followed Niko around the oval pond situated closest to their side of the museum, the water iced over, though no one was skating on it. Several couples stood near the edge for pictures beneath the snowfall, indulging in the rare element, not caring that it was faked.

  A white canopy erected in the corner provided some shelter from the falling snow and warmth out of the cold, courtesy of discreetly placed heat lamps that doubled as poles. Men and women mingled within, all of them trying to garner and keep the attention of one man.

  “Mr. Pavluhkin,” Niko said in a smooth, deferential voice as they approached, a path opening up for them. “Allow me to introduce to you Jamie Callahan.”

  Stanislav Pavluhkin wasn’t as tall as Jamie, nor as broad, but the confident way he held himself made him seem a little larger than life. The pictures Jamie had studied at MDF headquarters didn’t quite do the man justice. Sharp features provided a symmetry to his face gained by genetic enhancements done in vitro. Light brown hair was expertly styled and the blue eyes that met Jamie’s revealed nothing at all.

  “It’s not often we see a man with your impeccable credentials,” Stanislav said as he extended a hand in greeting. His English was pretty much perfect, but Stanislav’s Russian accent still came through, hanging heavy on every word.

  Jamie accepted the handshake, letting Stanislav attempt to find the pressure points on his hand and squeeze down in an intimidating way before Jamie returned the gesture with far more strength than Stanislav could match. A faint twitch of the man’s lips was the only tell he’d lost that fight. Jamie let go with a genial smile. Stanislav was too aware of his position to shake out the ache in his hand from Jamie’s superior grip in front of an audience.

  “The Marine Corps kept me busy for years, but as my father is running for president, I thought it was time to put family first over the nation. I gave up my commission two years ago and have been keeping myself busy,” Jamie said.

  “Yes, with a company owned and run by one of your former Marines. Root Source, Inc., I believe it’s called?”

  “My second-in-command’s brainchild. She saved my life in the field once or twice. I consider this payment for her loyalty.”

  “I know few people who would bankroll a multimillion-dollar effort like that without demanding an ownership stake.”

  Jamie smiled pleasantly, taking a champagne glass off a floating drinks tray. “I know quite a few people in my social circle who find sinking money into profitable ventures a good way to do business. You earn people’s loyalty that way and recoup your investment when it takes off. Besides, I don’t need an ownership stake in her company.”

  The subtle dig at Stanislav’s money status didn’t go unnoticed, either by the man himself or their audience. Everyone knew the Callahans were one of the richest families in the world, if not the richest under certain measurements. Stanislav’s wealth came from Russian state-sponsored contracts and ties to the Kremlin that lived or died on whichever corrupt faction of oligarchs managed to gain traction in that government body. Who you knew in Russia was just as important as what business a person owned and operated.

  Jamie’s family wealth was borne out of the private sector and not strictly beholden to politics. With money from ownership stakes in legacy unicorn tech companies, real estate, water rights, and Empyrean, they weren’t lacking for money in any way. Giving back to the country by way of philanthropy, military, and political service, managed to deflect much of the public scorn other wealthy families had to deal with in the American media sphere.

  Stanislav’s current conversation companion shook his head, mouth curling in a faint sneer. “Some might say that’s bad business, not taking your fair share.”

  “I don’t believe I asked for your opinion, Mister—?” Jamie let his voice trail off in a bored, questioning manner, despite knowing exactly who the man was.

  �
�Emmet Doyle,” came the snapped rely, his Irish accent not nearly as thick as Tomas’ had been.

  “Sorry, I’m unfamiliar with your name. Are you a businessman?” Jamie asked with a casualness that said more clearly than words he didn’t care about the answer.

  Emmet was too good at the game to give into his anger, though Jamie could see by the twitch of his hands against his glass that Emmet wouldn’t be averse to punching him for that insult.

  “Of a sort,” Emmet replied through gritted teeth.

  “Well, I’m here to have a business conversation with Stanislav. Stick around. You may learn something.” Jamie switched his attention from Emmet to Stanislav with such a rude dismissal it was impossible to miss the opinion he had for the Irishman. Jamie smiled politely at Stanislav, taking a sip of champagne. “Niko here should have delivered the results of the test you put us through. I don’t care what use you have for the business in question you want us to handle cybersecurity for, but the fact that we provided you with what you wanted, in a timely fashion, should prove we can do the job and do it right the first time.”

  “I don’t base my opinion on one job, no matter how well it was performed,” Stanislav said mildly.

  “And I don’t make it a habit of being strung along by someone who thinks he knows the business world better than I do.”

  “You said it yourself. You’ve been deployed for a decade. That’s a lifetime in R&D, in boardrooms, in business.” Stanislav smiled, but it wasn’t friendly. “You’re new to the game, no matter your family name.”

  “I’m not new to war,” Jamie drawled. “And out of everyone here tonight, I can guarantee I know more about that than anyone—yourself included.”

  “Most men would hesitate to make such a claim.”

  “I’m not most men.”

  “I can see that,” Stanislav said slowly, his sharp eyes never leaving Jamie’s face. “I would think, with your father running for the American presidency, that war would not be something you’d wish to align yourself with.”