Resist

by Tracey Martin

  “Motion sensors, trip wires—what else are dealing with?” I ask, swallowing my last bite of an energy bar.

  “Can’t say.” Summer draws the e-sheet closer. “I haven’t spotted anything like that, but it doesn’t mean they’re not there.”

  Octavia presses her lips in a thin line. “We’re simply going to need to be careful on our approach and not make assumptions. The AADs and the CYs are more of my concern. That’s a lot to get past before we even make it into the house.”

  And here I’d been envisioning no choice but to just go in firing. I’d never get to the door that way.

  Summer transfers the images to a larger monitor in the van, and Jordan points at a few spots. “Set me up with a rifle from any of those vantage points, and I can take out the AADs before they know they’ve got a sniper problem.”

  I don’t doubt Jordan could hit the camera eye on an AAD from five hundred meters. She’s possibly our unit’s best shot, but there are two AADs patrolling the grounds. “As soon as you take down one, they’ll know they’ve got company. You’ll never get a chance to shoot the second.”

  “Better one down than none.”

  Gabe glances up at last. “Or you coordinate. Two snipers.”

  “That assumes both people can get shots off at the same time, or close to it.” But as I say the words, an idea occurs to me. “Octavia, instead of breaking into the house’s main security, can you hack an AAD’s feed?”

  In theory, that should be a lot simpler. Any time a device has to transmit data over the air, the data is vulnerable. It’s why RedZone only gave us cables to access our implants. They didn’t want to risk enemies being able to hack our brains remotely.

  “Possibly.” Octavia’s eyes light up. “Oh, I get your idea. Let me try something.”

  “Get what idea?” Summer asks.

  I flex my hands a few times in anticipation, feeling a plan starting to come together. “If Octavia can take over the AAD feed, she can sub out what the AADs’ cameras are sending security with what our cameras send instead. Then, like Gabe suggested, we can take out the AADs without RedZone being aware.” I glance at the rifle cases by Gabe’s feet. “You have silencers for those things?”

  “Naturally, my dearest Sophia.” He smirks. “I aim for quality and completeness when I steal. But security might hear something anyway. These aren’t as good as the equipment we’re used to.”

  “Doesn’t matter. There’s no such thing as a silent gunshot.” Jordan points at the screen again. “We’ll have to move fast. I can set up here, and someone else can set up there. The AADs go to both spots frequently, and we should have clear sights.”

  “Who’s the other sniper?” I ask.

  Gabe sets down another finished IED. “Probably you.”

  Probably not me, but damn, I don’t know who else I was thinking to do it. Summer is the next best of those of us here, but we need someone monitoring the house and grounds. With her healing shoulder, it makes the most sense for her to stay behind and do that. Of the three of us remaining, our skill levels are fairly equivalent.

  Not wanting for us to get bogged down in details yet, I brush the question aside. We’ll figure that out once we figure out the next steps.

  As long as we can take out the AADs without being noticed, getting through the outside security patrols should be feasible with Summer sending us data. What to do inside the house is another story, and we each have different ideas for how to strike. The only tactic we can agree on is that we must get as close to our targets as possible without being noticed. Once RedZone discovers we’ve breached their security, we’ll be dealing with an all-out war.

  Stealth and speed, and no small amount of luck, are our best tactics. That means no guns except for taking down the AADs, and since there’s no way any of us can take down a CY without one, we’ll just have to do our best to avoid them entirely.

  “This,” says Gabe, fifteen minutes later, “is going to suck.”

  I open a rifle case. Despite my protests, I’ve been given the job of the second sniper. Meanwhile, Octavia continues working on getting past the AADs’ encryption, and it doesn’t occur to me until Fitzpatrick’s phone buzzes that I’ve never mentioned my conversation with Sky.

  Out and on our way, is all she’s texted me. Quickly, I fill everyone in.

  “We can’t rely on them,” Jordan says. “We don’t know when they’ll get here or whether they’re truly coming to help.” She sounds pained to say it aloud, but it’s not as though her skepticism is unwarranted after what Cole did.

  Since Summer is staying behind to act as our eyes, I hand her the phone. “Keep in contact with them. If Sky says anything suspicious…”

  “Don’t worry.” Summer sets the phone next to another laptop. “I’ve got your backs. Go kick some ass, and don’t be like me and get shot doing it.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Tuesday Afternoon: Present

  Getting into position around the rental almost takes longer than planning our attack. We split up and have to cut a wide swath through the woods surrounding the house so we remain unseen. In person, the house is larger than I expected, a modern, log-cabin style with lots of expensive cars parked in the driveway. Several camp vehicles are present, mostly trucks for transporting Malone’s brain-destroying equipment as well as his prisoners.

  Smoke rises from a chimney, and when the wind blows in my direction, the scent is wonderful. Taking up my position on a snow-covered hill on the north side, I decide that when this is all over, I’m going to try skiing. If for no other reason than because I want to hole up in a ski lodge, drinking hot chocolate and snuggling with Kyle.

  It’s a relentlessly optimistic thought given the task ahead of me.

  I adjust the rifle’s scope, trying to see into the building through it, but the drapes are closed. I imagine it’s warm, dry and comfortable inside. Meanwhile, the cold, wet ground seeps through my clothes.

  I hate the cold. I hate Malone. I hate what he’s making me do. Then I push the thoughts aside, shut off my awareness of the temperature and bury the emotions. HY1-Seven has no use for any of those things.

  “I’m in position,” I tell Summer.

  “Copy. I’m switching over the data feed to our cameras.”

  The woods are beautifully peaceful as we wait for confirmation from Summer that the transfer was successful. When the wind dies down, everything is serene, and a rich scent of decaying leaves and scattered evergreen needles mingles with the smoke. I strain my ears for the telltale hum of an approaching AAD, but I hear only a gentle rustle in the trees. There’s a good chance I’m too far away to detect it, and I remind myself that if that’s true, I should also be far enough away that it’s unlikely to spot me.

  “We’re good to go,” Summer tells us at last, and I smile. “Ladies, they are heading your way.”

  Summer keeps us posted on the AADs’ approach. I hold my breathing steady, my senses on alert.

  “Confirmed,” Jordan says in my ear. “I have visual on mine.”

  “Soph, it looks like you should be getting the same soon,” Summer tells me. “It’s approaching from ten o’clock.”

  I bite my lip, staring through the scope in that direction. There, I see it, a sliver of metal weaving through the barren branches. It’s about a hundred meters away—a simple shot for me if it weren’t for the tree trunks blocking my path or the fact that it’s a moving target.

  In the distance, I hear a slight pop, and a moment later, Jordan’s voice. “Got it.”

  I clench my jaw. It’s up to me now to do the same, but the damn AAD isn’t giving me a clear shot, and the wind is picking up again. In my head I recalculate and adjust for the new conditions, silently goading the thing into moving a couple more feet to the west. That’s my best opening if it points its camera in my direction.

  Come on, damn it. As
though it hears me, the AAD flies around the next tree, but its eye stubbornly faces away. Frustration claws up my throat. Apparently, impatience is the emotion that’s hardest for me to suppress.

  Then, just as I fear I’m going to lose my chance, the AAD spins in place. It moves slowly, but compensating for the motion makes the shot extra tricky. I cringe as my finger presses on the trigger. The time it takes the bullet to strike feels like an eternity.

  My shot is so perfect I can’t believe I made it, and I grin. If only Fitzpatrick could have seen that. The eye shatters, and the AAD drops to the ground, internal circuitry fried. Letting out a breath, I lower the rifle. “I got it.”

  “Nice shooting,” Gabe says. “Now onto the hard part.”

  Funny. I thought that was the hard part.

  I don’t bother breaking down the rifle, which has become useless to me. From my pocket, I pull out a data pad. A third the size of a standard e-sheet, the screen fits comfortably in my hand but doesn’t show much. It’s only helpful in conjunction with the information Summer relays into my ear.

  Our approach is slow, with Jordan, Gabe, Octavia and me each coming in from a different angle. The barren trees don’t provide much cover, and with the CYs on patrol and lookouts within the house, I have to dart side to side to stay hidden almost as much as I move forward. At one point, I hear a scuffle on the transmitter, and Gabe confirms he’s taken down a security guard who got too curious.

  And still we creep in, seemingly unnoticed.

  Octavia and Gabe are supposed to be entering from the second floor. Jordan and I take the first, but the ground is sloped, making the first floor raised in the back. On Summer’s all-clear, I hoist myself onto an enormous deck and dash to the glass doors that lead into the house.

  The data pad shows me a single heat signature in the room on the other side. Gingerly, I pick the lock and slide the door open an inch. The guard has his back to me, so I slip inside and quietly take him down before he notices what’s happening. I confiscate his gun and radio, then check in.

  The others are confirming entry as well, and Summer keeps us posted on guard movements. Like shadows, we slither through the rooms, taking out the security one by one in silence and planting several of Gabe’s IEDs as just-in-case measures. The remainder have been planted around the outside or will be used on the vehicles to prevent anyone’s escape.

  But though we have a few close calls, my tension only heightens with each new room I clear. No one has reported finding Kyle or Cole yet.

  Finally, Octavia speaks the words I’m dreading. “We have a problem.”

  I charge up the back stairs and join her in one of the spacious guestrooms. She and Gabe have tied up and gagged three techs, and Gabe is in the process of dismantling and destroying their equipment.

  “Where are Kyle and Cole?” I ask.

  Octavia lowers the gun she had pointed at the door. “They said security took them downstairs about twenty minutes ago.”

  “To do what? The equipment is up here.”

  “Some of it. Allegedly, more is set up for the demonstration in the meeting room. But they claim they don’t know what’s going on. Malone’s moved up the timetable.”

  I curse. “Summer, can you tell us more about where they’re congregating on the first floor?” So far we’ve avoided the biggest room, the goal being to remove as much of security as feasible before taking on Malone and the others.

  “I can tell you I’m reading a dozen heat signatures in that room. Two of them are likely CYs. And FYI, you’ve got company moving in on the house. The outdoor CY patrols are closing ranks. One of them might have found a rifle.”

  I swallow. “We’re going in.”

  “I’ve got your back,” Jordan says in my ear. “Soph, I’ll meet you downstairs. Gabe, Oct, why don’t you try doing something with those CYs outside? We don’t need any surprises getting the jump on us from behind.”

  I nod my agreement with Jordan’s suggestion, and the three of us split up. I return downstairs, working my way to the meeting room. The house has a large, open foyer in the center featuring a plush rug and a faux-rustic chandelier. Jordan and I meet in an unused room on the far side.

  Across the way, two guards stand outside the dining room door. No stealth will get us to them. They have a clear view of every approaching angle, which means there will be no bursting in on Malone and the others.

  Jordan holds up her fingers, and we count down together. On one, we rush the guards. They aren’t expecting us, but their training kicks in immediately. I take the right-hand guard, and Jordan the left. Though they’re RedZone-trained like us and taller, even without surprise on our side, they’re no match.

  Unfortunately, not being able to surprise them makes for more noise. As if the sounds of a scuffle weren’t enough to alert Malone to what’s happening, one of the guard’s weapons goes off, and the gunfire punctuates the end of the fight. Glass shatters on the chandelier and rains down on the foyer.

  The doors fly open, and the two CYs storm into the foyer. I lunge for the downed guard’s weapon, but whereas a human guard is no match for me physically, I’m no match for a CY. Inhumanly strong hands wrench me from the floor, and the gun goes flying.

  Jordan hollers—part war cry, part in distress from the sound of it. The other CY has her. From inside the meeting room, I hear our names being called in painfully familiar voices that are abruptly cut off.

  I continue to struggle against the CY’s grip, but it’s futile and I know it. Emotionless HY1-Seven has fled my brain. I’m pure Sophia again, a volatile mix of wrath, horror and disbelief that I’ve come so close only to lose in the end.

  The CY rips the transmitter from my ear, carries me into the meeting room and sets me down by the foot of the table. Its grip never loosens. Its control never slackens. Its human face is every bit as much of a lie as I’ve ever been, and in this situation the CY has all the advantage.

  Resigned to the inevitable, I quit fighting the CY as Jordan is shoved next to me. Although I can’t get free, I can observe and hope to find a weakness I can exploit.

  Six people sit around the long, polished table in the center of the room. I recognize all of them, though some I’ve never met.

  Kyle and Cole are the first I home in on. Gags have been stuffed in their mouths, and they sit stiffly, no doubt tied up in ways I can’t see. Kyle appears unharmed, which is obviously no guarantee that he hasn’t been repeatedly stabbed, shot or otherwise tortured already today. But if he has been, someone’s been cleaning up his dried blood each time. Cole, on the other hand, is a mess. His cheeks are scratched, and his left eye is red and swollen. I sincerely hope he did as much damage to whoever hit him. Both of the guys eye Jordan and me with the same expressions of furious despair, ones that reflect exactly what I’m feeling.

  The other four people seated at the table display none of the alarm I think they should. They might have gotten the upper hand for the moment, but their cool composure suggests things I don’t like.

  Malone sits at the head of the table, a politely disappointed smile on his mousey face. There is nothing new or remarkable in his demeanor, his expensive suit or the cup of tea in front of him.

  The other three people, however, are those I’ve only seen in photographs until this point. They are the missing three-quarters of The Four, and I have their aliases and crimes committed to memory along with their faces.

  Next to Malone sits Charles Smith, as he’s usually known. His background is hazy. Some intelligence reports place him as a former warlord out of Sierra Leone who made a fortune in arms dealing. Others place him farther south on the continent with ties to the blood-diamond trade. Whichever, he’s come a long way, and he has his hands in both businesses on behalf of The Four. He’s their man in Africa and parts of the Middle East.

  Closest to me is Zang Dongsun, frequently known as Donald Chang and a myr
iad of similar variations. He’s The Four’s primary leader in Asia, and he fulfills a role similar to Malone’s—a lot of research and development in high-tech, illegal weapons. His personal education includes advanced degrees in chemical engineering though, so while Malone’s side focuses on biotech, Zang’s is more often centered on the chemical-weapon side.

  Between the two men is Catherine Goulard. The only woman in the quartet, she’s believed to be the financial brains of the entire operation, working out of Paris. According to the CIA’s reports, neither dollar nor euro nor any other currency makes it through The Four’s organization without at some point being touched by her and the vast financial network she oversees.

  Witnessing the four of them together is downright mind-boggling. It’s not as though I truly doubted Cole’s intel, but the opportunity presented by their combined presence hits me all over again as I stand in the same room as them. This is the chance to bring down some of the world’s most notorious murderers, arms dealers and all around terrible people at once.

  Correction: was the chance. Because we blew it, and soon enough, I expect I’ll simply be another of their casualties.

  Along the back wall stand four additional people, each high ranking in The Four’s operations, including Malone’s number two. Like their bosses at the table, they don’t appear especially concerned by our presence.

  The only people missing are the clients who Cole thought might have been invited to witness the demonstration, and I should probably be grateful for it. We have enough problems as it is.

  Malone folds his hands. “Seven, I was wondering when you’d show up.”

  I frown, and my gaze darts to Cole. I don’t believe he’d willingly tell Malone about our plan, but who knows what Malone might do to get the information out of him. It’s the only explanation I can think of unless Malone is playing with my head.

  But apparently, I’m not thinking clearly. Malone senses my confusion. “Did you believe that by being here I’ve been cut off from what was happening at the camp? As soon as I received word that the Es had gotten free, I suspected who was behind it. You are as resourceful and clever an operative as we could ever hope to train. That’s a sincere compliment. You continue to impress me with what you’ve done, and conversely, what you haven’t done. Such as lose your memories, I can only assume.”